


Turbulence

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Strange Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-12 19:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has cautioned that all aerial appendages be secured. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please keep all arms and legs within a safe distance of your person. This message is brought in part by the fact that those with wings will often experience interruptions of smooth sailing. Have a pleasant flight and thank you for choosing Butterfly Bog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Different: In Which Two People are Different and the World Cares Too Much

They fought constantly.

They never stopped to wonder why this was; the answer was as obvious as night and day. They were different. Very different. So different.

Too different.

Many times their fights were verbal, spitting words back and forth over long expanses of space, closed off only by the brushes and cowering ground dwellers around them. Other times it was more physical. Oh, she’d never dare to raise a hand to him and he wouldn’t have even imagined striking her. But raised swords, sparks and ferocious duels were not uncommon. The two would scuttle, slip, fall and fly, taking over sky and ground, trees and dirt. For seconds, minutes, hours on end the sounds of clashing were all that could be heard. Metal against metal. She’d draw her sword, he’d raise his staff. Wings would flutter and then buzz fiercely.

They would banter when these fights broke out. One or two were meant to hit where bladed edges could not. And then, as the shadows passed and their breaths became ragged, the taunts and sneers turned into heaving laughs, whatever air left in their exploding and aching lungs used to poke and prod rather than stab and twist. These were the best kind of fights. Ones where darkness and light could meet in the middle and leave from the same place. Sometimes together, fingers intertwined and, more often, lips.

These were the fights where he would call her _princess_ with a twisted lip and she’d call him a greedy thief with pointed eyes. There would usually be a stalemate, both parties daring the other to drop their weapon, admit defeat. Maybe that was why they fought. Neither knew the word. Like negative magnetism they pushed against each other, nature pleading them to stay apart lest they explode into a magnificent display of science experiment dares and false volcanic eruptions.

And when sword and staff finally clattered to the ground she showed him just how much beauty and power she had and he proved just how greedy he could really be, hands stealing touches and claiming skin. These were the times they told nature to stay out of it and the world that hated them together to deal with it, noses raised to the skies. These were the times when his shyness backed into a corner and her stubbornness turned a blind eye and they were too exhausted to be anything but themselves. 

More than one time Marianne had gone home after one of these fights, her collar hiked up unnaturally high over a rather brilliant mark he’d placed there - _the insatiable boggart_ \- and passed by her disapproving father attempting to leave him as in the dark as the Dark Forest itself. Worse than her father was when her darling, big eyed sister found herself in the mix. The conversations that followed her appearance were always awkward, quick and filled with curious quips.

On one memorable night nearing the end of Spring she had gotten back from a particularly nasty joust with the Bog King and had tried her best to sneak through the castle doors, nodding to a few guards who tilted their helmets but said nothing and for that she had been grateful. She would never be that lucky, though. Her path to her bedroom was cut off by fluttering wings and a thoughtful scowl. “Where have you been,” Dawn would always ask that question first, hands clasped innocently behind her pale frock. Marianne suspected that her sister may have known, but Dawn’s relationship was hardly as hungry as her own was and she was sure that nothing of the kind had happened to interrupt the sweet innocence of the couple. “it’s nearly midnight! You know how father doesn’t like us to travel at night!”

“Bog dropped me off,” Marianne would have lifted her head indignantly but the flushed purpling wine stain on the skin near her collarbone warned her otherwise. Why oh why did her significant other have such impenetrable skin? Why did she have to be marked up like a scorecard.

“Oh! Is he outside?” She looked over her shoulder, as if to catch a glimpse of the man. The blonde was still wary of him and Marianne could hardly blame her. Being kidnapped and held against your will, no matter the trance you find yourself in, is never pleasant. She couldn’t be left in a room with him, got twitchy and nervous if he was too close and usually stuck near to someone if his name was mentioned. Even now her hands wrung together, the cogs in her head working in their neurotic constant circles.

“No, he left. He just made sure I got home on time.”

“Oh! Oh… that’s… nice?”

“Yes, Dawn, it was nice of him,” she smirked, hands going to grasp her hips, leaning forward look down at the youngest of her family. “That’s usually what nice people do.”

“Yes! Right! Nice people.” She blushed a brilliant fuchsia, even more potent against her fair skin and hair. “That is what he is.”

Marianne rolled her eyes once more, taking a moment to stare at the ceiling before heaving a sigh. “Okay Dawn. Well, goodnight. I’m off. And you should go soon too. It’s late and-” the bottom of her top rippled slightly. Her sister squinted.

“Why is your shirt ripped?”

Damn.

That had elicited a very long and unbelievable lie about a scrimmage she’d partaken in with a thornbush. Her sister’s question of _I thought you never flew through thorn bushes?_ made way for a fanciful adventure involving a chase scene from a nasty squirrel. “And then I tore my shirt,” she shrugged, trying to back away. “Easy as that!”

“I thought the Bog King got you home?”

 _Damn, damn, damn, damn_. So this is why she never lied! She had forgotten just how bad she was. “He did,” Marianne said quickly through her teeth. “He was there. Defending me. He got me out of the thorn bush. But… he had to rip the thing… because I was stuck.”

That wasn’t a complete lie. She had ripped her tunic. Just not on a thorn bush.

They had been having a great fight. One of their best. She had shown him her new moves and he’d been more than impressed with her. Of course them being persons of skill he had taken the chance to show her just how he could fight. The edges of his staff near the stone were sharp, swirled things and one had caught its way onto the edge of the fabric. She’d ducked away fast enough to avoid skin being next. But it had still succeeded in making the smallest of tears, only as long as her thumb.

That rip had had some assistance in its dramatic lengthening when, upon the end of their bout, his sharp fingers had done the rest. 

To be fair, she had run soft fingers down his back when he looked away.

“Oh…” Dawn gave her a long look. Marianne hiked up her shoulder and hoped it passed for a shrug. If her sister looked any harder she would see the only obvious impression. She did eventually give her own in return. “Okay. That’s fine,” it didn’t sound convincing enough. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. And, hey. Dawn.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe tomorrow we can go look for mudskippers. Just you and me. I’m in the mood to lasso something.”

Her sister was back in an instant, all smiles and flushes and perfect teeth flickering in the candlelight. “Oh yes! Yes! Yes! That sounds perfect! What should I wear though? We’ll be getting dirty, right? Yeah… we will… and what if Sunny sees me doing that! He wouldn’t care would he? Wait! Would he?”

“Goodnight, Dawn.”

“I have to plan my outfit!” She bit her fist, a shimmer in her eyes. “Oh, yeah! Goodnight!” And she’d scurried away.

That had become Marianne’s way of averting her sister’s attention. throwing an activity at her last minute. She felt guilty. She and Dawn should have planned things without her needing a scapegoat. At the same time it kept them both happy, and that was all that counted. Her father was pleased that his daughters were getting along, more so than they’d done in years, and everyone else was glad that Marianne had loosened up enough to stop being a guard dog. At least… not one that they could see. There were still times where she saw something from the corner of her eye and when her sisters back was turned her hand went to her sword. Those were her worst moments. But they weren’t as frequent. And if that didn’t count for something, she didn’t know what would.

So the next day she’d gone out with her sister to find mudskippers. And, after having looked at her neck in the mirror before their day trip, she had decided on a rather fashionable moss scarf which was approved most heavily by her always presentable sibling.

In a few days time she’d have to lie again. And she knew one day she’d explain to her sister what was going on. They had, after all, been taught in the ways of the lady and such things were unheard of. But at least she always had an excuse in her sword and her fighting had improved since she’d gotten a jousting partner that was better than trees and the air and the occasional guard who had some time on their hands. So those fights would continue. And Marianne loved those fights.

Those fights were not fights.

She and him had had their fair share of fights.

And those fights were not ones she enjoyed.

The stress of running two separate kingdoms got to both of them and the disapproving stares of those around them even more so. Marianne was hardly managing the kingdom. She wasn’t queen. Yet. And the death of her father was something she would rather have not thought about, especially since he was shuffling into his stooped ages. But she had enough responsibility. And most of it was from keeping her side of the forest safe.

Her side.

How ironic that she spoke of peace between sides, and yet there still were sides when the new day rose.

The fights that they had were usually started from nothing and escalated into furious shouting matches, no one willing to back down, admit their wrongs and apologize. In fact she was quite sure that neither she nor he had ever exchanged one. The sorrys came in the form of waning smiles, light tentative touches and quiet words. She sometimes would intertwine their fingers, squeezing their hands together as they sat side by side doing nothing much at all. He was shyer than she -a trait she had never suspected until just after their first meeting- and was never as bold. Sometimes he’d move to sit beside her in hopes she wouldn’t move away. When she didn’t (and that was an invitation though she’d never say as much) he’d move closer. When he was sure that no rejection was to follow he’d place a hand over hers or run the tips of his fingers through her hair.

And then everything was fixed.

Their worst fight had come during one especially hot summer night. He had shown her to the waterfalls of the dark forest and the day had been spent reading in companionable silence by the rivers edge. She’d told him that she had attempted a picnic but couldn’t be trusted in a kitchen. They’d laughed at her exploits. He’d surprised her with a picnic of his own, stowed behind a tree. She’d teased him lightly for his sweetness and he’d spluttered and denied it all. She remembered drinking quite a bit of wine, leaning against him under the shade of a fern and wishing it would never end. Wishing that she had the strength to exchange three little words with him. After all, they were just words weren’t they? How hard were they to say?

Apparently harder than she had anticipated.

Though words themselves were quite easy, and it was one of the simplest things to blurt out strings of them instead of the ones that really mattered. So she didn’t say that. But she did say something different.

“What’s it like being King?”

He hummed, nursing his goblet, looking somewhere over the falls where the sunset was beginning to burn the limestone that poked its head out of the lacey waves. She jabbed his side with her elbow, a futile attempt at something that could never feel like more than a light tap through his armored body, but it got some of the effect she desired. “Wha-?” His confused blue poppy eyes blinked down at her.

“What’s it like to be King,” Marianne asked again, a twitch in her lip.

He leaned back farther against the fern and the structure bent and stretched against its will. “Why d’ya want’a know now?”

“Just curious.” No she wasn’t. She was terrified. And whenever she was with him his title whispered in her mind and reminded her one day… “So? What’s it like?”

“Difficult, I suppose. I was bred to be one since I was a bairn.” His arm found its way around her shoulders, and she reveled in the moment. He was never forward without her help, and whatever moves she wanted reciprocated were always made first by her hands. Frustrating at times, yes. But whenever he did achieve something that she considered to be a step out of his comfort zone she silently cheered, her work paying off and the wall surrounding him being chipped down. This was small. But it meant something. She pressed her back against him, cuffing her fingers round his wrist to keep him from retracting the bold offer. “You get used ta it, though. An’ I always liked ruling.”

“That’s good.”

“Why dy’a ask?”

“No reason.” His fingers tapped her arm, the sharp ends sending tingles up and down the nerves there. “What?”

“Yee’re thinkin’a somethin’.”

“I’m always thinking of something.”

“No’ like tha’, an ye know it.”

She swallowed. “I don’t know… it’s just that I’ve been thinking of ruling lately. My dad he’s… well he isn’t young anymore.”

“Marianne!”

“I know, I know, it’s a bad thought. But… but it’s still true. isn’t it? He isn’t young anymore. And I’m the oldest. I’ll be the first to inherit. And because of some… circumstances… I was never home enough to get the proper ladylike training that Dawn got.”

“I think ye’r kindom will survive if ye dunnai know how ta’ curtsy.”

“You know what I mean!” He snorted when she batted at him, moving just an inch to avoid the swat that would have done nothing, but amused by the effort nonetheless. She scowled up at the Bog King. He snorted again, mouth training down to attempt a sober expression.

“Aye, go on then.”

She humphed, crossing her arms. “Well, if you aren’t going to take this seriously-”

“Nae! I’m serious!” She flicked up a brow. “Honest!”

“Well…” a sigh and her face fell. “I guess because of… Roland.”

“Roland.” It was meant to sound casual. She couldn’t miss the poison in the vowels. She reached for his hand and gave it an extra squeeze of assurance, hoping that would be enough to sooth his self doubt.

“Yeah. When he wanted to marry me it was because he wanted to be King. Though really, who knows. He might have felt a little bit wooed by my good looks.” The humor didn’t work as well as she had hoped.

“Though I will agree with his taste in women if that be true,” Bog hissed, “I dunnai think that man had any kind’a affections for anybody but himself.”

“Anyway, he wanted to be King. And the thing is, I’ve been thinking a lot about that. I know he was a stupid ass,” Bog hummed an agreement and she felt it rumble against her back. “but he still knew more than me about it all. He still had to learn how to be diplomatic and make tough decisions and travel to far off towns and cities and trade and expand-”

“What’s yer point?”

“There are better contenders out there! And by better I mean… not… me…”

“Come on now-”

“No! It’s true!” She scuttled away from him, ducking about his arm to sit back on her knees and look him straight on, fists curled against the tops of her thighs. “I wouldn’t know what to do first! I was never told what to do. My dad was too protective to even think about any of that. His plan for me was to marry me off to some handsome well off Prince or Duke or something and let them take over. He didn’t think he’d have to deal with someone like me.”

“I _like_ someone like ye’s.”

“You might, but half the kingdom doesn’t.”

“That still leaves another half.”

“Bog! Be serious!”

“I am!” He pointed his staff at her and the gold stone hit the light and cast an arching wall of fire across the stone wall by the falls. “Let’s do a test, yeh? Something ta see how ready ye are.”

“A test?”

“Yeh.”

She rocked on her calves, nodding slowly. “Fine. A test.”

“Right.” He tapped his chin with one of his nails, the point of his face rivaling that of his fingers. Twisting his lip he blew a breath out his nose before nodding and sitting straighter. “Righ. Yer first act as Queen. Yer new on tha’ throne. What would’ye do?”

Marianne hummed. “I’ve thought about that a time, actually.”

“Do tell.”

“When I become queen,” she had sighed, almost forlornly though she wasn’t sure why, “I think that I’ll extend the land out that way.” She pointed North. They both knew what was out there. Past both lands lay more forests unclaimed by anyone. But the resources within them were told to be plentiful. Those of their realms, including the leaders, weren’t ones for venturing and despite no horrid tales proven true about monsters and ogres and things with big teeth that crunched your bones, not one person had thought to go through and see what they could find. “It isn’t much there by ways of people.” She nodded to herself. “But I’d still like to see where we can go as a population. And it could serve as a good way to expand our trade if we find new uses for the things in there. New medicines. Herbs. Maybe stronger wood- something that would stay up during the rainy season for houses.”

Bog split his face, all his sharpened incisors showing between a barkish smile. “See! It’s a great idea if I ever heard one!”

“You think?”

“Yea!” When her face fell, so did his. He was a creature of darkness, and like a shadow he would always be behind her ready to mirror and extend her every mood. “What’s wrong?”

“My Father doesn’t think so. I told him about it a while ago. He says to use the resources you have, not your gut.”

“My gut has nae’er failed me b’fore.”

“But you’re King already. You have power. No one can tell you what to do with your ideas. I’m just a princess. I don’t have anything.”

“But you will.” He stood, stretching, and she followed suit. She cringed, her spines extending would never compete with the click click clicks as plates readjusted and clipped their way back against the unseen flesh beneath them. “Who knows, one day ya might rule a whole other way.”

“Oh yeah, an hows that?”

“I dunnai know. There’s still time! And ya can always rule with me if ye’d like.”

And Marianne froze.

Did he just…

No… he couldn’t have. She wasn’t ready for something like that. She still had so much to do. So much time to spend before… He couldn’t be asking…

How could her mind go from no thoughts at all to a million in just a second. The Bog King didn’t notice the widened features and continued, bending to retrieve his goblet and finishing the final dregs of honeyed wine. “Then ya’d get some practice rulin’ from behind me.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He’d meant that she’d be able to watch along, learn from him and they’d thread the kingdom back together. He hadn’t meant it to sound condescending. He hadn’t meant to say from behind to a woman who had always been considered nothing but a backstage prop by too many.

She took it that way. After all, props only go about being positioned by their creators for so long until they wear down and break apart. And she, Marianne, was no different. And even if her relief of not being asked a question she hadn’t realized would fill her with black, tarry dread, the other things helped along all the same. Through thick teeth she seethed, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Bog King looked up, brow lowering. “What’s wha’ supposed to mean.”

“You know! That I can rule from behind you!”

“Wha’ are ya-”

“So I can just be another helpful suggestion again? Do you really think I can’t even by the ruler of my own land!”

“I naer said tha!”

“Oh my… Gah! You’re as bad as Roland,” she threw at him, hands going to clutch clouds.

She hadn’t meant it to sound like that. She’d meant that she was tired of being considered less than an individual, that she would have gladly learned from him and they’d thread the kingdom back together. She hadn’t meant it to sound so comparative. She hadn’t meant to say Roland’s name to a man who had always been considered by everyone and himself to be unworthy of love.

The Bog King squeezed the goblet in his hand hard enough to leave indents of his armor. “Wha…” the rasp seethed, “is tha’ supposed ta mean?”

The words were out, and no one could take them back. So they continued. Because going forward was all that they knew. “It means,” she went on, “that you’re as bad as everyone else! You think that I can’t do anything because I’m some silly little princess!”

“An’ apparently you think I’m a conniving lad who needs some potion to make ya’ soft enough ta love someone!”

“Don’t you dare say that!”

“Well i’s true, isn’ it!”

“Oh so now you think that the only way that I could even like you is because I’m under some spell!”

“Maybe! Maybe then ye’d be a better Queen if ya just woke up!”

“And maybe you’d be a better King if you pulled your head out of whatever hole its in and stopped being such an idiot!”

“Oh, so we’re back ta insults! Classic Marianne! Always resorting ta her sharp wit.”

If she had had her sword she would have drawn it. But she’d left it at home, so she tensed her muscles and whipped everything she had between tongue and teeth, trying to keep the red from moving its way from under her collar and up her face. “As if you’re so good at it! We both know who would win in a fight!”

“Then why nauh win one an show me, eh!” He stepped forward, his full height casting a long shadow and sawing her in half. The end of his staff dragged against the ground with a metallic sort of threat. She stepped back, but couldn’t escape it.

“I could still rule my Kingdom better than yours!” She backed away as he advanced. Her heel touched water and she turned at the sudden shock of cold. He’d cornered her. Her wings wouldn’t work once they’d touched the stuff and she was so close to being held back by it now. She steeled her nerve. “There is a reason there is a light side and a dark side to this forest. The Kingdoms wouldn’t get along.”

“An’ why’s that _Princess_.”

“Because their rulers are just too different.” And as his face dropped she knew she’d hit something. And she’d almost felt bad until he was back to himself and taking another step forward. She took another step back. Her sole was sinking into the pond muck.

“Well maybe the Dark forest doesn’t need some fairy Princess gettin’ in the way’a things!”

“Getting in the way!”

“Aye! Oh! What? Did you think tha’ everythin’ would be just filled wi’ sunshine and rainbows after we became friends?”

“Friends! You think that’s it?” Her toes curled into the ick and moss wiggled through the cracks- cool and webbed.

“Us Dark Foresters nae’er had to deal with the likes of you ba’fore! We kept to ourselves for a reason.”

“And what was that?” She clenched her fists, feeling the tips of her nails digging into the flesh and a threat of blood bubbling over. “What was that reason, huh Bog?”

“Tha’ reason was ta’ keep out those who wanted ta change us! Make us like them.”

“Well we certainly don’t want to be like you.” she spat, and was almost happy through her own self loathing at those words to see the fire in his eyes burn hotter than ever. “Wasting away here in the darkness and the mud.” She stretched out her arm realizing a moment too late that the gorgeous waterfall backdrop about her hardly solidified the point she had tried to make. But she kept a straight face and an even straighter arm hoping he’d hook his teeth to the bait. He did.

“You know _nothing_ of our land,” he gnashed and he stabbed the air towards her with his staff. She stumbled back to avoid being hit and the tips of her wings dragged across the ebbing surface. The white mist sunk into her hair, curling the ends up and decorating it with glass orbs. “You dare presume yourself fit ta rule! Ta _me_! _A King_?”

“King of what? At least my job is to keep people blissful, not… not drive them into some deep sad place! I actually have the means to make my subjects happy-”

“Take it back,” Bog snarled. “ _Take tha’ back_!” Now his feet were dragging through the lake. She could see the flashes of silver as grains of sand and pieces of shells swirled around his ankles, which now looked more like the stalks of two impressive saplings.

“Why? Because you know it’s true? That I could be a better ruler than you!”

“Nae! Because… because…” he spluttered, losing the fight quickly to her trained tongue. So used to spitting orders, the back and forth was something she had long perfected. His spite faltered. “Because we’ll have to do it together and-”

“Together!” Marianne barked a laugh, her eyes bereft of the humor it magnified. She hunched her shoulders, stood on her toes. Her wings were beginning to soak up the water, the edges of them sponging in what they could, darkening. The fibers and nerves and veins protested. “We can’t rule together because you’re King of Darkness and I’ll be Queen of Light. Maybe you’ll even learn something!”

“Oh, that’ll be good. Jus’ you then. Takin’ care of everythin’! You can’nae take care’a yourself, tough girl. I was raised to be a King!”

“Oh good for you! The big bad Boggy was given a few etiquette lessons. _Whoopee_. Give him a metal.” She turned on him, both of them fuming. The sound of the falls was near drowned out by the roar of her ears. “We rule two different places. Good and bad. It will never change. And just because you had your mother there to show you some things, that doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t rule. You do. And that sure shows you how much you know!”

He advanced on her quickly. Their height difference, as he towered over her, had never been so prevalent and his shadow began to drown her the closer he came. Finally, standing over her, both glaring at one another, his fangs bared, chin jutted, he rolled out between a growl, “My father taught me wha’ I know bout ruling. The King taught the next King. Father ta’ son. But I suppose you wouldn’t know wha’ that feels like, would’jya?”

And as soon as the words were out he knew he had made a mistake. The hurt in her eyes was brief but it was clear. He snapped his mouth shut, blue’s widening. “Ah! Marianne… I… I didn’t…” She didn’t answer. Large brown dilations flickered from him, down, back to him and down. Arms winding around herself she shook her head.

“Don’t.”

“Marianne, please, I didn’t-” He hurried towards her, hands out for reasons even he wasn’t sure of. To beg forgiveness perhaps. Or to embrace her and make everything right. Or maybe just because he was as stunned as she.  She moved to get away, too angry and scared and frustrated to think about where she was. A stray current caught her ankle in taunting fingers and tugged. A hurried cry heaved out of her stomach and lungs and she fell backwards into the shallow pond. Her wings sunk and she gasped, scrambling to get up, waves splashing her face and she spluttered through the water.

“Wait! Let me help you!”

“No!” She held up a dirtied hand. Her other grabbed for whatever weed she could find. He stalled, arms extended, looking more worried than he ever had before. “No, just… just stay there.” She pushed herself up, was dragged back by the weight of wings that were now colored a midnight purple, and finally gained enough control to maneuver her way to shore. He followed silently behind, gazing anxiously down at the large butterfly tapestries that folded in on themselves and dripped marshy puddles behind her. She tried to lift them, screwing up her face until she did maneuver the heavy things, watching them with a crude fascination as they strained and shook.

“Marianne… I-” She snapped her wings back down. They made a wet _shrip_ against the backs of her legs. The waterfall continued its cheerful gurgle. In the distance a fish slapped stained glass. The sun had turned the sky a hollow scarlet, twinges of violet descending in the slow takeover, stars running behind on chariots. It was too peaceful for them. Or maybe it was peaceful enough. Because the more they stood in silence the more the atmosphere was able to muffle their anger, muting the lines on their faces and swirling their words back to pulsing ears. And those words collected on their spines and in their bellies and became heavy as lead and as malleable as gold.

She backed away, her arms curling around herself. The swampy water on her skin and clothes had begun to dry and crack, and she was sure that her wings would be following soon enough. She hugged tighter. It had gotten cold in a moment. Maybe it was too much wine. Maybe it was something else. Eyes pricking, she glared down at the water to force them to stop. “You go… go rule your Kingdom or something since you’re so great at it.” the fairy muttered. “I’ll stop bothering you now.”

“You aren’t.” he breathed. “Never.”

She shook her head. Strands of hair, as brown and as ugly as pond mud, traced her forehead. They left behind murky and spindly thin trails. A few drops hit over her eyes and she wiped them away with the back of her hand- the motion lasting longer than it would take to wipe at dirty water. Her skin came back a bruised purple. Her makeup was coming off.

She wasn’t sure which makeup she hated losing more.

“I’ll go back to mine, you go to yours.” She unfolded her wings, flapping them a few times. The breezes were lazy and caught him under the chin.

“Ye can’t get back with those,” his worry drowned every other feeling. A bird whistled from a far off perch. “Ye can’t fly with wet wings. Trust me. I’ve seen fairies…” his sentence did the same as they had. “Just… let me help ye get home.”

“I can get there on my own.” Another temperamental flutter. “Goodbye, Bog King.”

And the goodbye sounded too final.

Her flying more like messy weaving and sudden uncontrolled drops all of which he watched with his breath held. But she made it. And when she was out of sight in the trees, he stood a while longer and watched the spot she had disappeared to. A part of him wanted nothing more than to follow. Make sure she was okay. The other told him to stay. It would do him no good.

But I have to go after her, he reasoned, turning to pick up the remnants of their picnic, stuffing it back into the oakwoven basket his mother had pressed into his hands that morning. Anything could happen to her. It’s getting dark. She doesn’t have her sword. She’s not thinking right.

 ** _Neither are you_** , hissed the side of him that had not too long ago been closer to the exterior than all else. **_This is exactly why you wanted love to leave the forest._**

“We haven’t really said we loved each other,” he muttered to an empty goblet he’d picked up. He inspected it. It would still work, but the damage done by a too tight grasp was beyond repair. Pity. It had been a family favorite. He sighed.

 _But you do love her_ , something in him coaxed. _You know you do._

 ** _Love destroys reason_** , the hiss was back. _**It destroys order. Power. What King would compromise that for something as futile as love?**_

 _But you do_ , the other reasoned patiently. _And any good person would know that._

**_She said she was better off without you. Let her go destroy her Kingdom. See if we care._ **

“She won’t destroy it,” _destroy, destroy, destroy… roy… oy… oy…_ echoed back at him from the falls. “She’ll be a great Queen.” _great queen, great queen, queen… een… n…_ “And she deserves better than me.” _Better than me… than me… an me… me… me… ee…_

_Then don’t you think she at least deserves an apology._

_**Not if she doesn’t apologize first. Kings don’t apologize.** _

The Bog King lifted up the basket and tucked the handle between the crease of his elbow. The stars were beginning to settle into the velvet sky, and a darkness was allowing the moon to creep past the clouds. The air around him smelled like honeyed wine and the scent of lilac and marigolds and lilies that she carried around wherever she went. His realm never smelled that sweet, nor did it carry around with it a light or an assuredness like she did. He was scaled and tall and lanky and smelled of soot and brimstone and moss. He carried darkness about. He didn’t trust anyone. She never stopped trying to get him to trust her.

What was he doing? This simply wasn’t fair. Not in the least. Not for her.

He picked up his staff after that and ascended into the sky, the buzz of his wings magnifying the stale of furious and helpless silence about the world.

From a far off branch Marianne watched him fly off. She ran a finger through her hair, peeling away flecks of mud. When he was gone she hopped down and began her slow trek home. He was right. She couldn’t fly. She wasn’t sure when she would fly again. Her wings would take a while to dry, and by the time she would get home her father would be frantic enough that something as trivial as soaked wings would set him over the edge.

Sighing, she looked back once more. A tiny part of her willed him to come back.

 _You love him_ , a voice called into the silence of her head. She didn’t respond, beginning her walk. _Fine. Ignore it. But you do._ A root crackled under her foot. _You should apologize,_ the voice coaxed. _You know you should._

From a darker part of her mind a voice hissed, _**Queens don’t apologize.**_

“Shut up,” she muttered to no one, wiping at her eyes. The rest of the way home was done in silence.

* * *

Marianne had been right. When she got home her father unleashed hell. He asked question after question, wanting to know where she had been. She’d calmly explained that she was old enough to be on her own. That fight had been lost when her useless wings revealed themselves and her father went into another panic.

She’d slipped away as he’d gripped his hair and trotted to her bedroom.

The mud had dried, but water still dripped from her hair down the back of her shirt. Her clothes clung to her body and her wings made her feel sluggish and heavy. She’d bathed right away, careful to avoid letting the large, purple, very abused things touch water. Then, when the rim of the bath was a soggy sort of brown and she’d picked stray bits of ick from her hair she’d found one of her comfiest outfits, made a fire and settled by it for the night.

Wings spread on cold stone, twitching every so often, she waited not to patiently for them to dry out. It would take at least two days, she realized, picking up one of the ends and letting it hit the floor with a dull plop. Until then she’d be grounded. Forced to walk the earth, confined to a prison of dirt and grass. How did people do it.

Not that she meant to sound ungrateful. But flying always made her feel alive. Free. And right now was the ideal time to have both of those. But no. She’d stay down and be miserable and lonely.

Stupid, stupid Bog King.

She didn’t think her thoughts would be punctuated by a knock.

She got ready to tell her father to leave her alone. That she wasn’t in the mood to talk. Or get yelled at. And yes, she was taking care of herself, _thankyouverymuch_. But her father never knocked on windows. She stayed silent, thinking it maybe a trick of her mind.

 _Knock. knock, knock_.

It was not.

She stood. Or she tried to. It took some effort, pushing off the floor, wings keeping her down like anchors. She hadn’t realized just how terribly large they were before this, and it was beginning to strain the muscles on her back. But she did get up and, the purple monstrosities dragging behind her, catching on the occasional cracked stone. And she did eventually get to the window.

She wanted to say why are you here or something territorial like that. Because when she saw him outside her window, four wings blended into a buzzing mess, mouth tight and brows down she wanted to do nothing more than tell him to get lost. But she couldn’t.

She pretended to not know why.

But she knew.

She opened the window and stepped to the side. He took the invitation, swooping in, wings slowing, and landed gracefully on the ground. A pang of jealousy washed over her but she kept it down.

“Bog,” she said. And then just stopped. Because what was she supposed to say. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. And apparently he was just as much at a loss.

For the first time, both fairy and goblin found themselves speechless.

The fire crackled. Marianne shut the window and they were left in the dull light of the moon through greenish glass and the yellow and red bursts of crackles in the dug out hearth. She stood near the light, and her raw face shimmered. He stood in the dark, a silhouette of papercuttings and monsters under beds. He smelled of brimstone. She smelled of lilacs. The room was awash with confusing difference.

He spoke first, and the stones caught his accent, throwing it back.

“Ye said…” a pause. He licked his lips, chest expanding at the next violent breath and tried again, “Ye said tha’ we were different.”

More crackling. Marianne wondered if one could suffocate in tension and almost hoped that it was possible. She shrugged, cutting through what she could, but it settled on her shoulders heavier than ever. “You came back to see me,” was all she knew what to say. Because the obvious was the best thing to find.

He had. He’d gotten home, tried to stay and couldn’t. So he’d gone after her. It was a relief for Bog to know she’d made it back safely. If she hadn’t he didn’t know what he would have done. But she had. Her father had cast him glares that had said on their own to leave, so he’d snuck around to her window out of the eyes and ears of all that wandered the grounds.

“Ye said we were different,” he repeated, desperately.

“Yeah,” if she spun her fingers any faster she would have made silk . “Aren’t we though?”

“Why did ye?”

“ _Aren’t_ we?” Those two had slit faster than her sword ever could.

He didn’t answer at first, eyes darting towards her, then away to look elsewhere, always down. “Yes.” he concluded. “We are.”

And the moon from outside hitting the wall was more of a barrier now. A wall. A line. Separating the warm reds from the dark blues and defining a well etched truth that too many before them had declared. The Bog King stared at that line with as much hate as he wished he could give to her but couldn’t for the life of him muster. Because if he couldn’t hate her, he would hate the one thing that had caused this all and he would hate it until it broke apart and could let them finally just be and everything could be alri-

“I’m sorry about what I said.”

His head shot up. “Wha?”

“I said… that I’m sorry about what I said.” Her fingers spun faster, and the friction heated the pads. “You aren’t like Roland. You’re not like any of them. I didn’t mean any of it, I was just-”

“Nauh, it was my fault!” He waved his hands furiously in front of him like windmills. “I didn’t mean wha I said ‘tall. It was stupid. Yer gonna make a great Queen one day. An… an you’re gonna do it on your own!”

A beat. The wall between them hesitated. And then Marianne said the first thing she thought of and, in that second, realized was the brunt of the problem. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

He took a step forward. When she didn’t move he took another. His toes hit the line. “Ye don’t have ta. Ya have yer father and yer sister. Ye’ve got a family helping ya. Ye’ll rule eventually. Ye’ll rule and I’ll rule.”

“And you and I?”

“There’ll always be two lands.” The Dark Forest poking its head over the huge and fertile brushes out her window chorused its approval of the sentiment. “But… but tha’ doesn’t mean anything, really. This is still ours. They’re our people. We take care’a them.”

“And we can do it… together.”

Hope registerd for a moment, but was cast out quickly. The line brightened- solidified. “… Aye… Yes we can…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll teach ye what I can. As… partners…?”

Marianne wanted to respond. She really did. She wanted to say something to him that explained what she really wanted. She had a right to what she wanted. And she could feel a speech winding around her brain; two of them. One yes. The other no. And neither sure which one was to be the chosen one she delivered. Her head spun and the fire crackled and the line between them was becoming a border. _ **Say it,**_ the voice whispered, taunting her. _**Say it.** **You know it’s what everyone wants you to say. Say it!**_ But she clutched at her head instead, pulling against damp hair and that stupid little voice finally shut up when her own made its way into the too large room and said, “Bog… _Don’t_.”

“Marianne…” he shuffled. The creature in him squirmed around his chest. “What’s wrong. I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t give up.” Her head raised. She shook the few hairs that had come away between her fingers onto the ground, clasping hands together. “ _Don’t give up_.”

“What are ye talking about?”

“I’m so sorry about what I said.”

“As am I. But-”

“Just be quiet.” He was blinking owlishly against the firelight. “We’re so different,” she started again. “But that’s a good thing. I’ve just - I’ve never had to negotiate before. I opened myself up to someone and I wasn’t who I wanted to be and I made mistakes. But… so did you. So… this thing we have - it isn’t going to be easy. But don’t think that means that I’m going to give up. And don’t you give up on me.”

“Are ye sayin…”

“I’m not asking for a challenge. And I don’t want to treat this like a game. But I like challenges and I like games and I want…” she swallowed. “Don’t give up, Bog. _Please_.”

“Marianne…” It was her turn to advance. Towards the blue line between them. Her wings dragged, hissing on cool stone, but she ignored it. Instead she kept going until the two of them were within arms distance, but neither dared to reach. Toes just touching that stupid, stupid, stupid line.

“We’re going to fight, Bog. It’s inevitable. We’re just different.”

"Too different." A statement. Sharp feet hissing as he retreated away from her and from the blue thread between them, the mismatched pebbles beneath the blackened claws more interesting than she. He was going back into his shell again. Shyness making its way over his face and arms and body, coating him like a secondary suit of armor and she, the one who had finally broken through enough to see under, wouldn’t allow it. Not this time. Not ever.

“Bog, stop. Look at me.” He didn’t. She growled. “ _Look at me_.”

He wasn’t going to. Too far gone. From inside him the hissing small creature cheered a mighty victory song.

But one can only win so many battles before the war, and the Bog Kings self doubt had never met a match like Marianne.

So she crossed the line. It flickered and blackened under her feet, protesting the action. Telling her not to choose a side. And she retorted back with another firm step that there was no side and there was no line. Just a light on the floor and two of them, _different_ , in a room. She closed the distance between them, standing on toes to grab his face between her bath pruned hands and dragging him down to meet her. Spindly arms threw themselves out to the sides for balance, wings shooting up and out and buzzing for a mere moment before stilling like a Greek statue midway in the air. His breath stalled and she felt his pulse under her fingers quicken. “Yes, we’re different. Not too different. Just different. Perfectly different.” She left no room for argument. Her lips hovered just over his, her Cupids bow a centimeter away. He chuckled nervously, and it brushed the corners of her now slowly spreading smile. There he was, coming back to meet her. She nodded, brows and noses bumping, “Perfectly, wonderfully, _beautifully_ different.”

“O…oh really?”

“Mmmhmm…” Her arms moved slowly down, tracing over the shoulder plates to wind around him, fingers tracing the spot on his back between his wings. The spot that she and she alone knew the powers of. His breath hitched. “Don’t think you can give up on this, on us, because of one fight. I wont.”

“Marianne.” God how she loved how he said it. Like every exhale was her name and he couldn’t live without it.

How did she end up this lucky? That question was for another day and her hands were back on his shoulders, neck, chin, face.

“We’ll have fights. We’ll learn to talk about them better. We’ll get stronger. We’ll get over it. That’s what you do when…” and she stopped herself. Maybe it was because she wasn’t sure if it was what you did. Or perhaps she just couldn’t say it. The light in his eyes dimmed a moment and she noticed, so she grazed her lips against his for a hair of a second. “But that doesn’t make us- this- not right. Because if you haven’t noticed I don’t really care about what people say much and I’m totally ready for an adventure if you a-”

He crashed his lips onto hers and she had her answer before she could finish the question. The boldness was new. And she embraced it happily because something told her that moments like these would be far and few. Until he learned just how much she… Until he learned, he’d always be that shy, untrusting Bog. Waiting for her to turn around and realize who he was and leave. Waiting for her to wake up from a spell and go back to her one true love. But she wouldn’t. This is what she liked. This was what she _loved_. _He_ was what she…

She liked the imperfections and she liked the small moments and she liked the sparring and the sarcasm and the quiet and the difference. It was an assurance that he was still him. And she was still her. And they were willing to fight for something that everyone said couldn’t happen.

He was the first to wake from the stupor. “Your wings!” He glanced at them, “Are they-”

“They’re fine.” Marianne shook her head through her swollen smirk, “A few days of drying out and they’ll be good as new.” She tried to flap them to give him some assurance but only succeeded in a pathetic shudder. He rose a brow but she waved it off. “Its fine. It looks worse than it is.”

“Well at least try ta dry them out so they don’t look worse.”

“I have a fire,” she pointed. “See?”

He rolled his eyes and she was pleased to see Bog seeping back into his skin. “Then lets get you back to it before they freeze.”

“That can’t happen.”

He answered her with a hand to her back, just barely touching her with more than the tips of his fingers, muttering about incorrigible fairies and princesses. But when she and he did settle by the fire, her large wings spreading against the floor nearest to the flames his train of thought ended altogether. Their silence this time was one of companionship and nothing much else. He sat farther away from her, scared of what would happen if he was to touch her again, but she was done with all of that. A hand around his wrist and he was dragged towards her. And after more time of silent egging and encouragement his arm would around her and she leaned into him and they sat together there.

The fire flickered around them. She marveled at how long his legs were and he marveled at why on earth he was allowed to have someone like her because he was too lucky of a goblin. And the shadows on the wall cast both him and her into something smooth and rigid and short and long and different but not so very different at all.

“So, how did you even get in?” She interrupted the peace. “My dad just let you stroll in in the middle of the night.”

“Uh.. naugh… I talked to your father… He told me ta bugga off.”

Her laugh competed with the flare of fire. “Sneaking around to see me, huh? Well maybe tomorrow we can just see each other. Say whatever to everyone and just go.”

“It’s a nice idea,” he muttered into her hair. His breath tickled the tip of her ear and she grinned to herself. Different was definitely something she liked.


	2. Repetition: In Which History Repeats Itself in Cycles of Decay

_**Because history will inevitably repeat itself. But repetition often contains different endings. After all, even the most terrible of storybook monsters can crawl out from under the bed to find their love.** _

* * *

  **Me while writing this story**

**Me: Alright. Here we go. This time I will do it! This time I will succeed in writing exactly 2k words. I can do it! I can… ooh! This needs more dialogue!**

**Sponge Bob Announcer: ~15k words later…**

****Me:** MOTHER FUCKER!**

**Sponge Bob Announcer: Did you expect any different  
**

**You might as well pop some popcorn. This might take some time.  
**

**Story: That’s a _novel_ idea**

******Me**** : Shuddap.**

**And I apologize for the rushed ending. When I reached 12k words my life flashed before my eyes. I pressed forward for the cause. But I think I may have lost a little bit of soul in the process. If someone finds it please deliver it back to me… I don’t think it wants to come home… that bend around 15k words hurt it.  
**

* * *

Marianne had woken up feeling positively beautiful.

These mornings were somewhat of a rare occurrence. Image was never her first priority, and she did little for her appearance, a fact her sister had tried to change on more than one occasion. Usually the only thing she needed was her sword, her wit and a quick word secured on her tongue ready to be unleashed. But that morning, blinking out into a perfect sunrise, she had felt unabashedly beautiful.

For an hour she had lay in bed, watching the sun rise over the trees of the Dark Forest a few miles away. The rays caught in the window, shining tiny rainbows across her room, bouncing off the pearl structure that held her bed to the ceiling. She watched them happily, twisting her fingers round a petal of the rose beneath her and swam in her own giddiness. And when gold and fragrance finally combined enough to stilt through the lines of the window and step through and circle her room she rose, stretching, not bothering to sooth the butterflies that tickled her ribcage.

And that morning had been different. Everything had been.

She wasn’t sure when it had happened- this change in her person. And yet she could still mark the exact spot.

“How would’ye like ta attend a council meeting with me?”

They’d been sitting in a mossy alcove in the Dark Forest, nestled away from the mushrooms chain of eyes and flightless henchmen who were constantly on the lookout for their King. Surrounding them were piles of scrolls. Easy to identify, hers had been written in delicate scrawl upon paper made from their most durable of flowers and his had been made from some sort of scratchy papyrus. Her father had dumped more paperwork on her yet again and Bog had been more than happy to ask for her company while he did his own.

“Do you want an honest answer to that?” She scanned a few of her fathers decrees, snorting at the pretentious and flowery language the advisers were so partial to. “Because I can tell you right now that you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“Yee’ve hardly heard my argument,” he pointed out soundly, not bothering to look up. “No wonder yee’re terrible at paperwork.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“It takes patience.”

“As if you’re the King of Composure,” she said around her tongue. He snapped his scissored claws at her mouth and it retracted with a glare.

Smirking in triumph the Bog King  gestured to the large pile of finished documents beside him. “Yee’re on yer third, correct? Just making sure ta see that I’m naught judging ye unfairly.”

She groaned, shoving the impressive stack of soon-to-be-completed scrolls to the side. “Alright, I yield. Why do you want me at a meeting.”

“I just thought it would be a sound idea. Ye mentioned yer interest in politics.”

“When have I ever showed an interest in politics.”

“Ye dui want to be Queen.”

“Of course. That doesn’t mean that I actually enjoy the meetings. You know that.”

“Ah. Yeh. I suppose I dui. Silly me.” He flushed, looked down. “Farget I said anything then.”

“Nuh uh. No way. What’s the other reason.”

“There isn’t one! I simply… let it slip my mind.”

As if she was falling for that. “ _Bog_.”

His eyes stayed studiously trained to the paper, but she could see the way his lip had curled into a grimace. “I just thought that maybe… well I mean- I know that yee’re involved with yer worlds politics. I thought that, if yee’d care to-” he swallowed, staring at the paper with too much interest than necessary, “-perhaps yee’d care ta be part of -that is ta have a say…” he strung off with inconsistent babble that faded away to generous head motions ending with a ducked head, ears tipped as sugary pink as her face. “Though I understand why. Ye must be incredibly busy with yer own land and it is far too much ta ask of ye. An, honestly, who actually enjoys these meetings.” He chanced a look at her through a nervous chuckle, and at the shocked look he received his head tucked away once more. “Apologies,” came the mumble. “I’ll just… I’ll just finish these, then.”

He coughed, stared down at the writing with an amazing amount of interest and hoped that was it.

His embarrassment switched to shaded anger when he looked up to see her expression unchanged. “What! I said I was sorry, you don’t have ta-”

Bog was silenced by another mouth over his own. The paper fluttered merrily to his feet. She broke away first. “That, Mr. Bog King,” she hushed, “was just about the sweetest thing you’ve ever asked me.” They both were terrible with communication. But that didn’t mean they didn’t know what the other had said. Through his rant she had detected enough choice words to string together the sentence, _I want you to be a part of my world. My whole world._

“Uh…”

“And _yes_ , I _will_ come to a council meeting.”

“Um…”

“And I know how terribly stubborn my father is, but next we’ll work on getting you to one of ours. It’ll be good for an outside voice, anyway. Most of them are idiots.” Then she peppered him with a chaste kiss and went back to work.

At least she tried to. In the end most of their scrolls ended up far below, stuck to the knobs of the tree roots below.

They’d given up on paperwork after that. So he’d shown her how to make a flower chain, snatching up blue poppies from the ground and grinning at her frustration. And when she teased him - _the Big Bad Boggy knows just has the most adorable hobbies_ \- he’d plopped a pile of the unused rotted flowers atop her head and told her to _hush_ because his hobby would make her look like a Queen. And he would never have known what those words meant to her.

There had been songs. There had been giant gestures. There had been noise and sound and colors and events and adventures and trips. Somehow, compared to all of them, the smallest moments, dwarfed behind so many other cosmic explosions, were the ones that made her chest do little flip flops.

And that night, one tiny gesture had her glancing towards the spindly, sharp Goblin, whose skin caught against hers and whose claws combed through her hair and whose fangs grazed her neck and who was so entirely different as everyone told her over and over and over and over again until she couldn’t help but nearly believe it-

She knew that she loved him. She was aware of that fact. It was as clear to her as the stars in the sky- a presence that is persistent in its knowledge though often unseen. But that night, watching him construct a crown of blue poppies, laughing and reading and talking of politics, she had a thought so terrifying and perfect that her breath caught in her throat and her wings stilled and she had to clarify the impossible several times over to make sure that it was true. And upon discovering its apparent realness she was not quite sure of what would transpire next.

She looked at Bog. She really looked at Bog.

_This_ , said the tiny piece of her mind that was wholly and fully her, _is the person with whom forever is possible._

And one of those stars in her ever present I Love the Bog King Sky exploded into a nebula.

This was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She had concluded, over politics nonetheless, a subject she despised as much as paper hearts and red streamers, that she was enough in love with the Bog, My Middle Name is Misery, King to wake up beside him daily and to be legally bind two differences so no one could call them anything but a pair. She wanted forever. The little hissing voice was out in a moments notice, shadowy hands flickering in static across her face. **_No you don’t, it corrected. You’re Marianne. You’re the fierce warrior who hates lovey dovey things. You don’t do forever. You do now._**

And then Bog had looked at her, in the process of threading together the final flowers. “Marianne? Are ye alright.”

_**No, you aren’t. You’re going to leave now before this gets out of hand. Leave before you want forever again.**_ The voice was thrumming her heart with talons and teeth. _**Once you want forever twice then you’ll get it. And then what will you do?**_

_You’ll live it,_ said the other voice. _You’ll live for what you have. And you’ll do it with him._

Those were words she had needed to hear. Because the terror turned into another just as fierce and the more she looked at him the more that seemed to grow until there was a fire in her belly and her eyes stung with appreciation. And she felt like a total idiot but she was fine with it.

He watched her, attempting to gauge a reaction. She had shaken her head, put it to her hands and let out a wet sort of laugh.

“Marianne! What’s… what’s- I didn’t mean ta’-” The circlet of petals was by his side and his hands reached towards her. “Marianne?”

“Oh jeez,” was all she could manage through the heavy laughs. “Aw jeez.”

“Marianne. If it was something tha’ I-?”

“No, no, nothing you did.” She looked up, wiping away the lines that had no business being on the same face as the smile that split it. “I just… I just-” and she practically threw her arms around him. “I just love you so much.”

They didn’t say it often. Almost never. Gestures and touches and quiet words of appreciation were always their thing. But in these moments she was thankful for their frugal attitude. Because those words had an affect on him like no other. And when he sunk against her in a tighter than possible hug, she thought they fit together quite nicely.

The night had ended with her being crowned with blue poppies at her doorstep and a kiss to put all others to shame.

That morning, turning over in bed and stretching her limbs across the petals of the rose, knuckles grazing pearls, she was met with the sight of a dark blue crown on her bedside. It was the first thing she saw that morning, right before she decided that she felt beautiful. And it was the last thing she put on getting dressed, adjusting it in the mirror, and decided that she really was quite beautiful.

_Told you so_ , said one voice to the other.

**_Hmph_** , the hiss exclaimed before turning its back to the meddlesome Hope.

* * *

The breakfast nook of the palace was filled with sunshine and it reflected off the plates of fruit with an agave gleam. “Good morning!” She grabbed Dawn from behind, capturing her shoulders and pressing a sloppy kiss on her cheek with an exaggerated, _mwah_!

“What’s got into you?” Her sister rubbed off her face, but didn’t hold back a curious smile. When was her sister _not_ smiling? “Someone’s in a good mood!”

“What? I’m not allowed to be?” She plopped down beside her father, heaping fruit onto her plate. They had honeydew today. She _loved_ honeydew. In fact, she just about loved everything this morning. And she _especially_ loved-

“Your sisters right,” her fathers look was not so much curious as intrusive and stood between her and her final thoughts on what she did or did not feel affection for. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“Nope!” She bit into the melon.

“No… special event coming up?”

“Not that I know of.” A bit of juice dripped down her chin and her tongue flickered out to catch what it could. “I’m just in a great mood! That’s all!”

“But you’re never in a _great_ mood,” her sister pointed out, and she flicked at a slice of blueberry. “Ever. I mean… not like this at least.”

“Well maybe I’m changing,” Marianne pointed out and reached across the table to pinch Dawn’s chin. “And you’ll just have to get used to lovey-dovey Marianne. I’ll sprinkle fairy dust in everyone’s path and sing Sugar Pie Honey Bunch at the top of my lungs!”

Her father muttered something from beside her about blasted fairy potions and too catchy tunes.

“Besides, can’t I go around telling people that I love them!”

“Not really.”

“Well I do,” she pointed an apple slice at the youngest of the royal family. “I love you,” and the apple slice moved to point to their father, “and I love you! So there!” Then she bit the apple with a happy crunch and leaned back in her seat.

Father and youngest shared a look. He rose a brow. She smiled wickedly (and he was quick to note that for someone so sweet she did wicked far too well) and bounced in place, blonde hair raising and dropping in tiny ovations. Apparently she had a different opinion on the lovesick eldest. The Fairy King glanced at his father, attempting to scour out some hidden secret. His eyes fell to the top of her cheery person. Eyes squinted he raised a plump figure and remarked, “That is a rather bold choice in head-wear, isn’t it?”

“What, this?” She touched the soft headdress, glad to see it holding up. “It’s flowers. I thought you _liked_ me wearing flowers.”

“I do. They’re suitable for a fairy. But not ones so…” he struggled for a word, “morbid,” he concluded with a nod. “Besides, I thought that buttercups were your favorite!”

“Dad, just because I happened to wear one _once_ does not mean it becomes my favorite. And these aren’t morbid. They’re pretty.”

“They’re too dark to be found out here in our land.” Her teeth stalled around a piece of apple. She swallowed loudly, blinking large eyes up at him. “And since when did you ever know how to make a flower crown?”

“ _Since never_ ,” Dawn muttered. Marianne shot her a glare.

The King pointedly ignored the two, focusing instead on the crowned brunette beside him. “Are you sure that there’s nothing you’d like to tell me, dear?” Her father tried once again. Marianne opened her mouth and for a moment she was in a good enough mood to blurt out her true feelings for a certain goblin in the Dark Forest. But she stopped herself. Her father disapproved. It almost ruined her move. Knowing what he’d say already. **_Are you sure?_** She could almost hear his voice. **_You aren’t thinking clearly. There are other eligible bachelors all over our kingdom. There are people who would want to marry you. People who are beautiful and romantic._**

It almost ruined her mood that she couldn’t explain to him in enough words that Bog was those two things- more those two things than anyone she’d ever met. The flower crown burned a ring around her head and the words helped to do the rest from the inside. She wanted to explain to him, _do you see how happy I am? Can you **not** see how absolutely incredibly happy I am?_ Instead she looked at her plate and grabbed another apple, punctuating the air with a snap as her teeth bit through white flesh.

“No, dad,” she sighed a smile. “There’s nothing.”

And her dad gave her a smile that said he obviously didn’t believe her but couldn’t prove why yet. And her sister gave her an all too knowing look that sent her stomach into knots.

“Hey dad,” she added quickly, taking another bite of honeydew. “I’m going to be gone today.”

“Today?” She was never gone during the day. Hardly ever. And her nighttime gallivants were unknown to him, though Marianne had her suspicions. He was all too aware of who she was with. And she was all too aware of his disapproval. “But we have a council meeting!”

“Let Dawn take over. She has to learn how to deal with trading and things.”

“But they’re asking about the Dark Forest today,” and his voice lowered during a particular point of that sentence. “You know how those meetings go!”

“Yes, I am well aware. But still, Dawn needs to learn-”

“Aw _Marianne_!”

“Shush it, Missy. You do.” Dawn flopped dramatically down into her seat, swooning. Her sister snorted. “I know those meetings can get heated, Dad. But have you ever thought for just one second that maybe it would be a good idea to bring B-”

“We are not bringing that… that **thing** … into our Council rooms.”

“Dad!”

“Goodness knows what he would do.” Her father scraped away the last bits of lemongrass jam from his plate with orange pulp. “For all we know he might hurt a diplomat or- or eat someone.”

“Dad, Bog won’t _eat_ someone.”

“Nevertheless, all Council meetings will be discussed with fairies only and transcribed to the Dark Forest leaders through messengers. That’s it. I will admit that this… phase you’re going through adds some support when it comes to trading. But we can’t trust them. The utmost caution has to be taken with their kind.”

“ _Utmost cau_ -”

“Yes, Marianne!” He barely scraped her with his eyes, going to spoon another helping of lemongrass jam onto his plate. “Anything that looks like them is dangerous.”

“Anything that looks like them!” She threw her hands up, grabbing the apple slice with more force than necessary. “Dad, can you even hear yourself?”

“I sorta think Boggy is neat,” Dawn added tentatively.

“Bog.”

The two were not listened to.

“Of course I do. I’m the King here, and I’ve seen too many wars with their kind to count.”

“Wars or scrambles?”

“That doesn’t matter. The point is that anything that acts like them and looks like them can’t be trusted. And I don’t want you going over there! You know how I feel-”

“Yes dad, I do know how you feel. And you also are very aware that I rarely listen to you about that.” Before he could answer she snapped one last apple in half, grabbing a whole berry from the bowl in the middle and standing up. Her chair scraped the floor behind her. “Besides, I’m in too good a mood for you ruin this! I love you both! Don’t wait up for me!” She gave her father a peck on the cheek, feeling his eyes on her back, his slack-jaw preventing a reply. She didn’t mind though. As long as he didn’t speak she didn’t have to turn around to face him and he wouldn’t see the look of pure joy on her face.

Pure, lovely joy.

If he’d seen that he may have figured it all out. And yet, somehow, she didn’t quite care. She stepped outside, the sunlight warm and full on her face and breathed in the fresh grass. Strolling down the path she plucked a few leaves and flowers, working the stems together. How did her sister Dawn do it? Create those stupid boutonnieres with no seemingly tools or effort. She shrugged, taking off and collecting a few more green and yellow buds as she did. This wasn’t the time to question anything. She just smiled at the sun and pressed the flowers together in her hand. Then, patting down the dark flower crown, she trained her wings towards the first signs of the Dark Forest, three words sliding around in her heart, threatening to spill over.

And maybe she was in a good enough mood to let them.

* * *

"Sorry, who are you?" Thang and Stuff stared up at the woman, heads tilted. "Sire doesn’t usually take guests without a notice."

"Oh, he’ll see me."

"Oh really," Stuff crossed arms across a moss green chest. "And what makes you so sure."

"Because," and she pushed past, "he’s in love with me."

They watched her go, helpless to do much else.

"He’s in love with _her_?” Thang watched her go, mouth twisting. “I thought he was in love with Future Queenie Marianne.

"Love is weird," Stuff said sagely.

* * *

The Bog King woke up in a fantastic mood.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but when he sat up in his moss bed and stretched his long limbs he’d suddenly decided that he was quite possibly the happiest goblin in the world. Not that he could prove it or anything. But he was quite sure. No. He was positive.

He’d gotten next to no sleep the night prior. Possibly because that was in no way in accordance to a normal sleeping schedule. Creatures of the night were meant to be just that. Not to say he hadn’t lived his life off of a fair share of power naps. The meeting was scheduled for late afternoon, though, and so he’d needed the day free.

And of course on this particular day his meeting would be intruded by one that was not an intruder. A partner by his side. The Bog King had never felt more excited about giving over responsibility before. The thought of sharing now was nothing short of fantastic. He’d have a driving force beside him. He’d fight beside one who supported him in every way.

He hadn’t slept much at all. But that was simply because the words of I just love you so much ringing through his head and he’d woken up imagining partnerships of every sort and he’d stared at the ceiling for hours with a sloppy grin across his face. Everything, he’d decided, was beautiful. Everything was marvelous and fantastic and so beautiful. The sun shone through the trees with rare clarity and the forest was practically alight with a still fascinating calm.

“Guid mornin,” he’d pecked his mother on the cheek on his way to the throne room and she stalled.

“Who are you and what have ya done to my son?” Said son’s ragged smile, wider than she’d seen given to her in years, went green under the lights

“What! I’m not allowed ta say hello ta my darling mother?”

“Not usually,” She cradled her hips with two hands and glared up at him. “What did you do?”

“Me!” His hands popped up in surrender. “Nothing! I didnai do anathin’! I’m just… in a good mood s’all!”

“Too good a mood.” The goblin woman waggled a finger at her son. “Something happened, and I’m going to find out about it.”

“Okay, mother,” he practically sang, tapping his staff along the corridor as he moved along. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, Marianne is coming over t’day and I have ta-”

“Marianne!” He stooped over at the shriek. “Oh I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That’s why you’re so happy, _lover boy_.”

“What? No, mother- I-”

“Oh this is fantastic! So, whens the wedding?”

“Mother, now is hardly the time to-”

“Right, right, sorry. I forgot how prudish you two were.”

“Mother!” His face went bright maroon, clutched his staff to his chest like the best of barriers. “She is coming here to simply… keep me company while I plan border security and offer her opinion. This is a political meeting. _That’s it_.”

“Fine, fine. And I assume you want me out of the way.” She crossed her arms and scowled. “Out of sight?”

“Far away out of the way.”

“Right, of course. My own son doesn’t want me to meddle in his life. His own mother, cast to the shadows like a regular boggart.”

“Aw, c’mon mother. You know that I-” she turned away with a huff and he sighed. It was odd. This might have sent him into a fit, and he’d have thrown his hands up and stalked off to avoid her until he could bear to stand her once more. But today he was in a good mood. Today he had woken up with three words shouting through his head in a tidal wave that had to be released lest he burst. And this wasn’t going to get in the way.

Kneeling beside her, craning his neck down to her height, he gave her another peck on the cheek. The Goblin softened immediately, uncrossing her arms and turning back to her boy. “ _Please_ , mother.”

And that did it. She threw her hands up to the ceiling. “Ugh, fine. I’m out of the way. I’m silent.”

“No streamers,” he added for good measure.

“No streamers,” she crossed her heart. A sigh. “You know I’m happy for you, Boggy. That you’re with her.”

“Bog.” He hadn’t though. He had assumed his mother was just happy that he was with anyone.

She ignored her son. “She makes you happy,” Griselda patted his cheek. “And I missed seeing you happy.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile was soft. “I know, mother.”

“Good. And do me one favor, son?”

“Yes, moth-ow!”

She smacked him upside the head with a sharp whack. “Stop being such a thick headed Goblin! I swear, you get this from your fathers side.”

He rubbed at the sore spot, scowling. “What was-”

“We’ve been through this before. Tell her how you feel!”

“Marianne and I do tell each other.” More than she would ever know. And the feelings in his gut did little barrel rolls and handstands.

“Really?”

“Yes! In… in other ways.”

“Son, you’ve been t’gether for seven months. _Seven_. I’ll be dead by the time you get married. And don’t tell me that you tell her you love her all the time. The two of you are like worms, squiggling away from emotions.” He flushed. “And before ya say anything, a few muttered admissions and a good roll around the old swamp grass doesn’t count.”

“ ** _MOTHER_**!”

“So maybe it does count a little. Oh stop looking so red faced. I’m old enough to know what goes on around here.” She sighed. “You never talk about it. It’s unhealthy. Trust me. Yer father _never_ talked about it. Gave that to you and look where you ended up.”

"Yer confidence is breathtaking."

"I’m tellin’ ya son. One day something is gonna happen and this is gonna come back and bite you. You need ta’ be able to _really_ say it.”

A growl rumbled over and his wings buzzed forlornly. “We sang it once,” he muttered in defense. His mothers look snapped his mouth shut for him.

“Someday son, you’re gonna know the difference between love and _love_ and then you’ll get what I’m saying. But for now I’ll leave you alone to your thick headed prudish selves.”

“We appreciate it,” he muttered dryly.

His mother kissed his cheek, patted the side of his face. “Now go and have the rest of your stupid good day.”

“I will,” he sprang up. “And mother?”

“What is it now?”

She wouldn’t get it. Or at least, she would, but the last thing that he needed was her squealing on and on about admissions and true love and grandchildren and marriage. But he did know the difference. And he was having a stupid good day because of it. And he was a stupendous heap of nerves and split ends and twitched smiles.

“Well?” she prodded, rolling her eyes. “Out with it.”

He took a breath, stared down at the amber in the center of his staff. “Love you.” The words were as rushed as his feet as he scuttled away, wings taking flight with a violent buzz.

Griselda stood another moment before dragging the fond smile across, splitting her face in two. She clapped square teeth together and wandered away down the hall. It was no doubt. Her son was an idiot. And his lady friend was an idiot. But they were both idiots together. And she loved those two idiots more than they’d know.

* * *

“Sire!” Stuff and Thang met him before he could stroll to the throne room. “We have news for you.”

“You tell him.”

“No you tell him.”

“One of ye tell me somethin. I’m in a rush an’ I dunnai mind busting heads.”

“Right,” Thang cleared his throat. “You have a visitor, sir.”

Bog near rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you time and time again. Marianne is not a visitor. If she’s here you don’t have to announce her unless-”

“It’s not Marianne, sir.” Stuff rarely talked directly to him, and the action did not go without notice.

“The council isnaugh going ta be here fer hours. They’re never earleh-”

“Not the council either, sir. She says that she-”

“She!”

“Yes sir. She.”

Bog puzzled a moment. Some of the council was female, but they traveled as a group. And too his knowledge he hadn’t made any friends. Marianne was the only female caller he’d had since his mother-

A groan that had resided in his gut for months found its way out. “I swear, if this is one’a mothers matches… Must have gotten the memo late,” he spat. “Right. I’ll deal with it.”

“Sir, I think you should know that-”

“I’ll deal with it!”

The doors slammed under his weight, staff clunking along the floor following his feet. “Right, whoever ya are. So sorry to ruin yer hopes, but yer a lost cause and I’ll have ta ask ya ta leave ‘fore I have my guards dui it for ya.” No one moved. He saw a shadow move to his left. “What’d I say! I want ya ta lea-”

“Hello there Boggy.”

He nearly dropped his staff. No correction came forth. The voice did enough to seal his tongue down. That voice… That voice. He hadn’t heard it in years. But it was the same. The same tenor, the same octave, the same generous heft of syllables through a painted mouth. She stepped into the light and the light caught her skin, white spots shimmering vermillion beneath it.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Ah.” Said Bog.

* * *

The boutonniere was hideous, she decided when her feet touched precipice outside his palace. It was terrible. And that just made her happier. The familiarity of the joke was nearly too much for her. Dawn had offered, earlier on, to help design one for her and had recoiled most violently when Marianne had said, “No. I want to make it. The uglier the better, right?”

Apparently that was not the case.

But it was the best gesture she could think of. In a way they’d bonded first over the hideous thing Dawn had made for him. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to make something just as painful on the eyes.

“Bog?” Her call through the door went unanswered. “Someone in there? _Hello_?” Nothing.

She wandered through the doors in search of the Bog King. The ring of poppies atop her head looked like a weight when she entered the shadows. And when she heard the shouting -no doubt the man was arguing with yet another of his many available victims- she ignored the voice that tried to interject.

_Somethings wrong_ , it said. _Something is very wrong._

She was too excited to notice that it had not been the hiss.

* * *

Krakella was as beautiful as he had last remembered her for a total of seven and a quarter seconds. Those had been used up to verify exactly who was standing in front of him. And once the seven and one quarter second had passed his present situation leaked pink dust from his eyes and helped him to blink away a historic image caught in his brain.

The idea had never occurred to him to think of his first love as anything but beautiful. And to think it now was foreign. She’d been trapped as a constant in everything that he was. She stood there and he could smell the primroses in the back of his mind, see the pink glow ebb from her slick skin.

“It’s been a long time,” she repeated. Her webbed feet made little slapping sounds against floor. Her hips swayed, paunch hanging over her waist unmarred by curves, edges. She smiled. The red stretched. Fangs bared. He ran a tongue over his teeth, feeling the same still there, intact, similar. She came closer, stopped in front of him.

It had been a long time. The last time they’d parted was on the terms of a primrose potion. She’d left him, running far away. And for so long he’d thought back on it with a feeling of helpless dread. He’d been left without love. Without another person like him. Someone similar.

_Similar._

**_Will you look at that! A match!_** Oh how Bog hated that cruel, hissing voice. But he didn’t stop it. _**It does feel good to see a match after so long, doesn’t it?**_

_Marianne_ , the sensible voice chimed in. _She’s different. That is what you like, isn’t it._

It was odd how true that statement was. Years ago, starting at the Frog Woman in front of him, a resident of the Dark Forest, a creature of the woods, he would not have wished for anything but the same. Same was comfortable. Didn’t challenge you. Gave in to love potions and didn’t ask questions. Same was something you could fall against.

Different had been evil. Different was challenging. Different sneered and spat and picked and prodded.

She noticed his silence, lidded her eyes and purred. “Oh Boggy… I’ve been such a fool. You must be wondering why I’m back, mustn’t you?”

“Uh…” was all he managed.

“I heard about some recent dealings with the other kingdoms. There’s been all these rumors around that they’re off your back now.” She trailed her fingers across his throne, moving about it, eyes on him. “I think it’s great. Admirable. You finally have some time on your hands that isn’t chopping down primroses.”

“Ah-yeah…” he blushed. “Sorry. About that, I mean. Not… not the truce. The- ah- you know.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she waved it off. “I didn’t come here to yell at you about it. What you did was… justified.”

His face twisted. “Pardon.”

“I mean, you were only doing what was best, right? Trying to get me with the right man.”

“I would hardly call my methods admirable.”

“Well I would. And for the first time in a long time, I’m finally seeing clearly.” She stepped down from the throne. Moved towards him. “I finally think I understand why you did it. And… I think I want to try again.”

Bog’s face clouded. Head tilting, neck letting out a few lone cricks, he blinked at her. “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

She sighed. It sounded soft, inviting. Too calculated. “I’ve come back here to see you. To tell you that I missed you. Find out if maybe… just maybe… we could…” one of her hands lightly gripped at his forearm. His spikes didn’t catch. They wouldn’t catch on her skin, nor would his nails graze or his sharp elbows and knees jab. He looked down at the hand, slicked by mucus, slime. So intriguing so long ago. So similar in its own right. “We could, you and I, try again.”

And the hand burned. He jumped back. “Krakella. I- It’s lovely to see ye. Really. But… but perhaps this isnaugh the best of times. I think maybe ye should-”

“You aren’t asking me to go, are you?” She advanced. Her hips swung. Marianne’s hips never swung like that. She scoffed at ladies who did it, much more comfortable with a sword in her hand then her hand against her waist, sashaying along. “You’re still the shy little goblin I remember. You do remember don’t you? Our time together?”

“Ye fell in love with someone else.” That was clear now. He knew that now. It wasn’t you, the calm voice reasoned. Just remember that. It was never you.

_**Hideous.**_ The hiss tried to get out a word but was snuffed quickly. What would Marianne think if she knew he’d thought that about himself?

_Marianne._

“Oh come on, Boggy. That was never real love!” Marianne never called him Boggy. Only when she teased him. Only when she knew. Never like that.

“Bog.” he corrected it in the fairies place.

He was ignored. “It was a little fling! That’s all! I loved you the whole time.”

“That-” he licked his lips. “That isn’t possible.” Because it wasn’t. Because this would all be a different story if it had been.

“It is! It really is!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh _Boggy_ ,” she pouted her red lips which, the more he looked at, he was beginning to decide that they didn’t look as kissable as he last remembered. And they were a lot more… pouty… Marianne rarely pouted. It took away from the glares she favored in their place. “If I didn’t, why would I be back here?”

“I don’t-”

“I’m here to apologize! To beg for your forgiveness! I want you back!”

“What happened to-”

She snorted, snipping his sentence away. “Oh, him? We didn’t work out after all. Seems in the end we were just too…” she struggled to find a word. “… _different_.”

Different.

Different was what Marianne treasured in him. Different was what she whispered in his ear, telling him that he was perfect, amazing, lovely the way he was. Telling him never to change. Ever. Different was their hands clasped together, their bodies entwined, his nails in her hair and her skin on her own. Different was awful and magnificent and- and-

And just like that Krakella, once the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, was no longer beautiful.

Fairies and Goblins had their own idea of beauty. And in his eyes there had always been the glaring idea that Marianne, in her own right, was pretty enough. By fairy standards he was sure -he supposed- she held something of a nice face. He certainly wasn’t sure of her thoughts on him, but would have chanced bets on the negative. He hadn’t even realized that he thought of Marianne as wholly beautiful until Krakella stood in front of him and became just the opposite. Everything he had imagined beauty to be was held in a former love from years ago.

_She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen_ , he told the fae once. And he’d believed it.

Now he’d realized that he’d seen better.

More than that, his idea of beauty had seemed to stretch its limbs, wave solemnly goodbye and walk to the door to let a new creature in. And with a nod it was gone, replaced by the new occupant who smiled sagely from its place and proceeded to go about its duty of planting new images in the fibers of his being, snapping and cutting away the remnants of past that had stuck fast. Beauty was more than external. He already knew that.

But Marianne wasn’t just beautiful. She _was_ Beauty.

He steeled his nerves. “Krakella,” the name almost didn’t make it past his lips, but he managed with force. “It was… lovely ta see ya.”

“Bog, don’t tell me you’re asking me to leave again.” A hand against her hip she jabbed a finger on his chest. “Last time I checked, you owe me one.” Eyes slitted, he could practically smell the rage coming off of her- smothered in lust. “You were the one who tried to force that potion on me remember.”

“It was stupid,” he agreed. “And- and I’m dearly sorry. Truly, truly sorry. But,” he continued, “Yee’re a wee bit late.”

“What do you mean,” she giggled.  Marianne never, ever, ever giggled. “What, have you fallen in love or something.” His silence told too much. “Wait… you’ve fallen in love!”

“Aye. I have. I’ve fallen in love,” and didn’t that feel good to say out loud. “So if ye could see yerself out-”

“Who!” The lust in her eyes shifted to something redder. “There’s no way! You told me that you only wanted me!”

“That was a long time ago,” his sniffed. “Ye found someone else. So did I.”

“He was too different! Didn’t you listen to me!”

“Yeh. Fortunately, my… parson is also different.”

“Your person.” She raised a brow, attempting casual. He didn’t miss her curled fists. “Oh please, how terribly different could she be? She’s from the Dark Forest-”

“Naugh.”

“No?”

“Naugh. She’s from the Fairy Kingdom. Now if ye could-”

“The Fairy Kingdom!” Her shriek was not appreciated whatsoever. His ears rebelled and he winced. “You found yourself a… a fairy!”

“I… did.”

“Oh no. No, _no_ , **_no_**. Bog. We _hate_ fairies. They _hate_ us.”

“She doesnaugh hate me.”

“She must!”

“I assure you-”

“They’re all the same!” She threw green limbs through the air, stalking back and forth in her place. “They’re all vain, stupid, air headed-”

“Watch it,” he growled.

“They are! They’re not good for anything.”

“You watch your tongue.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending them!”

“I’m naugh defending them. I’m defending har.”

“They’re all the same!”

_They’re all the same._ It rung around his head with linked hands and he growled. What had he ever seen in her. How had he allowed himself to fall so far, so fast. He backed away, pointing his staff towards the door.

“Get. Out.”

“Boggy-”

“Bog,” he was snarling now. How dare she. How dare this woman come into his palace simply to insult his love. His claws bared, teeth ground. What had he ever seen in her? What had he ever wanted. Some fake love with someone as narrow minded, infuriating, spine numbing, brain dead- “Get out. Before I dui somethin I won’t soon regret.”

“I won’t let you do this to yourself. I _love_ you.”

“You know _nothing_ of love.”

"And you do?" Before he could answer she moved closer, new words cobbled against a fiery tongue. “I know that it won’t let me watch as you… you give up everything to some stupid… stupid fairy!” She hopped closer.

“Krakella, this is your last warning.”

He didn’t hear the door open from behind him. Couldn’t see the shadows shift.

Krakella was all he could see. And she moved quickly towards him, face so set in determination it shone. “And this,” she declared firmly, “is mine.” And before he could do anything about it, her hands were around his neck and her mouth was on his.

He didn’t have a chance to see the fairy who stood just a few feet away.

* * *

Marianne rushed through the halls. She swooped, dove and landed outside of the throne room doors where voices rang through. Her chest fluttered. She adjusted the crown, pushed hair from her face. It was just a normal day. Except that it wasn’t. It would never be a normal day again. Not after last night. Not after today. This was beyond anything she had ever experienced, and it hit her with the weight of a perfect and beautiful truth. And she was bursting with too much emotion for her to even comprehend. Maybe there was pollen from newly growing primrose petals or perhaps she’d had too much wine the night before. But oh she couldn’t stop it and she didn’t want it to stop.

So she threw open the doors, wings fluttering. “Hey, Bog!” Her voice collided with air pockets through the room and bounced back, “You’ll never guess what Dawn taught me to make! And you lost yours so I decided to make you your o-” A breath. “Oh.”

Bog was standing there. And she was standing there. And her hands were places where Marianne had believed only she had power over. Selfishly believed she was the one. Foolishly believed she had been the one. And she remembered her face even though it was locked over his. Remembered it through a blue cobweb enchanted shield telling her stories of vulnerability and she had fallen for it.

She had fallen for it _again_.

She hates how they are kissing. She hates how close they are. How the green hands have the right to move along shoulders and arms where only her hands were allowed. She hates how his wings pop out in a way she thought only she could do. She hates… she hates…

She hates how, watching them for only a second, her mouth fits better over his than hers ever could and the textures of their skin match up, and when she touches his shoulder, his chest, the hooks of spokes and spikes and splinters and knobs don’t catch her skin, but they smooth over. And she hates how that looks more right than wrong.

The boutonniere slips from her fingers but she doesn’t notice it.

The kiss breaks when his claws hit her shoulders and Marianne watches in the same cruel fascination as the sharpened ends barely graze her slick skin. “What,” Bog had growled, “d’ya think ye- you-” And he saw her. “No.” The first time he says it its slow. But the next ones come out easily, the cork pulled from the lip of the bottle. But what comes out is fermented, _no no no no no’s_ , and she doesn’t want to hear them because they’re too sour and stale.

And when he says her name -how dare he say her name- she opens her eyes to him and all she sees is flashes of green armor and grassy fields and a beautiful maiden that isn’t her, could _never_ be her. And there is such hurt in her eyes that he has to stop. He might not realize that she doesn’t see him. He doesn’t realize that all she’s seeing is blonde and green and red. But he tries anyway to get through the shell that quickly making its way up her body encasing her.

“Marianne! Please! I- I didn’t!-”

“Be quiet.”

"Ye dunnai understand!"

“Shut up!”

"It wasn’t- I would never-”"

“STOP!” And he does. The end of his staff hits the floor with a mighty thud. And she’s seeing too much blonde and red and green, but just enough space for the bark and the teeth and the bluer than the sky blue to seep in. And that was when it began to hurt more. The mixture of colors - _green and blue_ \- and textures - _smooth and rough_ \- and feelings - _what have I done wrong_ \- was drowning her.

Marianne shook her head, trying to get rid of all of the color stuck behind her eyes. Tried to calm the roar in her ears.

“Marianne, you have to understand.”

“I don’t have to understand anything,” she spat, surprised she could even find her voice from behind all this color. “You- you were-”

“Please,” and he’s begging now. And she cannot stand begging. Her hand is on the hilt of her sword. The rational side of her brain, one not yet taken over by all this blaring, blinding, burning color tries to sooth what it can. Listen to him, it says. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do.

_**Too late for that**_ , the hissing imp lounging in the pool of neons said lazily.

_It’s never too late. He listened to you. That’s why you love him, isn’t it? Because he really, really listens to you?_

And it looked like that side might have actually had a fighting chance. Her guard began to lower, eyes began to soften. The colors still ached around her but she did her best, she really did, to see past them. Because she couldn’t see past them. She couldn’t see him. He came closer and she stood still, waiting, not sure what to do next.

_Give him a chance_ , the voice was back, feeling the rise of heat under her collar.

_**No more chances. Chances make you weak. Remember when you used to be weak?** _

She did remember. And she had hated it. And then Bog had reached out his hand tentatively and had muttered, “Come on, Marianne,” and all bets were off.

Her sword came out with a _shing_ and his staff was a defense. From his stance she guessed that was all he’d be doing. Just taking blow after blow after blow, and she could deliver. She wanted to scream at him. And she was going to, sword drawn for no real reason but to have the comforting weight in her hand she glared him down with enough spite to bowl over an army. Hands clenched, target in sight, she was ready to unleash hell and ask, no, _demand_ why he had done what he’d done. And then she’d spar him with real ferocity and fly home and grow a new shell and never speak to him ever a-

“Is _that_ her!”

The voice stopped both in their tracks. Marianne looked over to the frog woman who sauntered, hips swinging, and attached herself to the Bog Kings arm. He was too surprised to shake her off, so he didn’t. But his body went rigid, wings buzzing a moment before stilling on his back.

The Frog Woman, whatever her name was, and Marianne did not care in the least _thankyouverymuch_ , gave the fairy girl an up down and scoffed. “I can’t believe that’s the reason why you didn’t come running back to me. Ugh!” And she leaned against him, leering. “It’s hideous!”

And the anger that had been building up inside her just slipped away.

The heat from her head and chest oozed out of her veins. She felt it run cooler and cooler until the ends of her fingers were numb. And it collected at her feet, weighing them to the floor and in her eyes, prodding them until they stung. Her sword lowered, scraping the petrified floors. Her jaw slacked, trying to find words of defense. Nothing came. So she fell silent.

It hurt more that he didn’t say a word.

_**Which is fine**_ , said the darker voice, shading its eyes from all the colors. _**Do you even want him to?**_

And the other voice trembled, thinking of a suitable, moral and practical response. But there were just so many colors. And now they had blended together and she could no longer tell them apart. Two became one and that one had mixed to create something dull and vulnerable and stupid and ugly. It was the color of _How Could You Fall Twice_ and it dripped a freezing trail of threads down her spine.

Her arms tugged up by invisible strings to form around her, shrinking. The Frog Woman made a noise in the back of her throat, scoffing. “Honestly, Bog. Look at her! A _fairy_! They’re all tiny hands and feet and- really how can that waist support anything.” A snort. Marianne looked down, arms moving their position to try and cover as much as they could. This was the view of fairies from goblins. And now she was hearing it out loud. She’d known that tastes in appearance had been different. He’d glanced over it and her father had given her one too many lectures about it.

It had simply never been spelled out with her as a victim of the harsh criticism.

But she was not done. “So ugly. How can you even stand to be near it?” She shuddered. “And to think, you actually kiss that thing. Well, not anymore,” she chirped, brushing off his scaled shoulders as if to wipe away any residue left behind by the fae. “Now you’re with someone a little more fit to your… ehm… standards.”

**_Do you still want him to?_** The hiss didn’t bother to rise at the mock insistence, knowing the answer.

And looking upon the man, pleading as if his life sat on a line and his wings were held aloft as a prize, a decision of the more sensible voice had been made. _No_ , said the gentle voice, retreating into the shadows and letting the colors take over. _No, we don’t._

She looked up at him, both of them hardly moving. His hands raised, mouth opened, teeth flashed. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say anything at all. Her hand went up, sliding the flower crown from her head and wringing it between her hands.

“Why don’t you run along then, fairy,” the Frog teetered her hands, fingers wiggling. “Go back and find yourself some blonde hero or something.” Turning to Bog, “You know how the fairies are, don’t you Boggy. I mean, just look at her wings. They can’t help but be vain.” She turned, noticed Marianne and rolled her eyes. “Well! Didn’t I say to scoot?”

He didn’t correct her on his name.

And Marianne, out of spark Marianne, doesn’t know what to do Marianne, please don’t let this be real because my heart cannot break twice Marianne, did as she was told. She turned and walked out. The flower crown fell from her fingers in a heap, her boot flattening two of the buds underneath and muffling her steps. 

“There,” he watched her go, a voice at her ear. “That took care of that, didn’t it?”

He wasn’t even sure of what was happening past the roar in his ears. But he did remember calling for guards, snarling to have her evicted from the palace, kept away forever. He remembered her calls of regretting his choices. And he remembered agreeing.

His staff stuck in a crevice beside him he’d lifted off, grabbing the wreath and the boutonniere from the floor and taken off down the tunnels.

"What happened!" His mother had run along underneath him. "I saw Marianne running out! What did you do!"

"Something I have to fix." He made his way out. "If ye see a familiar goblin being dragged out just look tha other way."

"What are you talking about!" But he was gone, moving through the trees, cutting through the sunlight that spied down, clucking its tongue against the leaves, a teasing sort of sparkle in its spotlight.

* * *

Marianne had not walked for long.

She’d gotten to the mouth of the skull and walking was no longer an option. It hurt to walk. Made her all too aware of the weight in her chest.

Her toes caught soil and she’d broken into a run. Mud splashed across her boots and speckled her wings and legs. She tripped on a pebble, not watching where she was going, just running, running, running, and her hands dug into moss, forming around her fingernails. Her wings flew out at her sides and she’d taken off into the air. Thorns caught the violet, slowing her, and the constant whipping assault of branches against her legs and arms made her curl into herself. She flew faster, stronger, harder than she had in too long. Everything burned in a perfect harmonic agony, directed by a heart racing fast for reasons she wasn’t sure.

She nearly fell when another figure jumped out in front of her.

“Marianne, please!”

“Move, Bog.” Her arms tightened around herself. She sounded weaker than she wanted, but she was done yelling. “I’m leaving.”

“I need ta’ explain. It wasn’t- it wasnaugh what it looked like.”

“How was it not what it looked like.” She stared deftly at his chest, refusing to meet his eyes. Their voices swept the trees, carried by stray winds that smelled like dirt and dew. “You were kissing her.”

“Yeh! Tha’ part was wha’ it looked like, but not what you think! She-”

“Is the girl you love.”

“Ye- what! Naugh! Why would you-”

“That is her, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

She swallowed, focused at a spot near her feet. “The girl that you were- she’s the one that you loved.”

“Well yes, but you remember Sugar-Plum! It wasnaugh real! It would never-”

“Just move, Bog.”

“Marianne-”

“I trusted you! But you… you played me!” And both of them startled back at the words they’d near forgotten. She recovered first, tearing at her hair. “How could I have been so stupid. We’re too different. That’s what she said, isn’t it? That we’re too different!”

“Don’t ye dare think that-”

“Maybe she’s right. Why not go back to her since you like kissing her so much.”

“Stop!”

“You played me and I fell for it! _I fell for it_. **_Again_**!”

He didn’t think to question why again. Why it had happened before. Because he could never recall a time where he’d once let it happen. Nothing in his memory pointed at him and said traitor. Yet her words bunched together and called out against the cruel repetition.

“You don’t understand,” he tried again. “If ye’d just listen to me-” Angry. He was so angry. Because she wouldn’t listen.

“I don’t want to listen to you!” Angry. She was so angry. Because he would never understand.

So she flew under him. Swooped away. He tried to get in her way, arms outstretched, pleading and anger in his eyes all at once, a cocktail too complex to even speak of. He didn’t get a chance. Her hands were at his shoulders and with more strength than she’d ever used she pushed against the propellers of his wings and he fell back against the sky. He stopped. _Stuck_.

The spiderweb had caught him only a few inches away. But it was enough time for her to turn and fly.

“Marianne, wait!” But she was already past the trees.

* * *

She landed on the grass and felt no inclination to do much anything but kneel there, chest heaving. The place where her wings met her back burned something fierce and her lungs cried for air. Mud soaked through the fabric into knees, the dark brown going darker with the water. The air had gone cold and heavy. She sat there and breathed in the heavy air, trying to let something fill her up because she was so empty all of a sudden and feeling emptier by the second. It hadn’t been like this before. There had always been that doubt before, and that doubt had been ready to create holes within her so that empty had been something she’d been used to.

She should have stayed used to it.

She did walk the rest of the way home. The weight was something she couldn’t beat and it held her down. Hurt, stung, but prevented her from feeling much else.

“Marianne-?” Her sister met her at the door, and she was grateful for small miracles. If it had been her father she would have had a lecture on how he had been right all along. And that was hardly what she needed. Not now. Especially not now. But it was her sister instead, and she stood at the archway, arms crossed, worry embedded into those pretty eyes of hers.

Beautiful eyes.

Was everyone just better for the world than she was today.

“Marianne? What happened! You’re so dirty! Did you fall or something?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Or something…”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Bog today? Is he here?”

No answer. She tried to step past but Dawn blocked her.

“Marianne, what’s… what’s wrong.”

The eldest shuffled past, not stopping to look at the younger. “I’m going to go take a nap,” the whisper did not come without the gravel caught in her mouth, choking her. The halls heard it and swirled it around a moment before it dissipated into a whisper of told you so… told you so… told you so…  “I just… I want to be alone, okay?”

“What happened!”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She began to climb the steps. Her sister followed. “Please just… I want to be alone.”

“Marianne, please, don’t shut me out again,” and Dawn sounded as broken as her at that moment. “The last time this happened- I still don’t know what happened and you changed, and please I can’t have you change again!”

“I won’t change…”

“You promise?”

She received no reply. Marianne reached the second floor. Her room pulled for her down the hall and she followed its beckoning calls.

“Marianne, please! At least tell me what happened!”

“I’ll tell you later, okay?” She was done talking about it. She hadn’t started but she was done. She’d lived it once. She had never imagined that there would ever be an encore and she’d be watching, stuck to a front row seat as the characters of the vision lived out cruelly in front of her. Speaking of the matter would do nothing to stamp down the colors, the sounds, the feelings. “But right now… I want to be alone…”

“Marianne, please _don’t_ -!”

The door clicked shut and the sound of a turning lock followed.

Dawn stood there a moment before sighing and trotting away. It was unfair. It was completely unfair. Some people simply were meant to have all the heartbreak. And her sister, her always too protective, too generous, too much sister seemed to open her arms, face forward and take it for all the world.

* * *

“I don’t know what you did to her, but I really don’t care.” Dawn stood hidden behind a half open door. The blonde had been wary of him long after their first introduction. And this situation did nothing to advance their relationship.

“I need ta see her.”

“You don’t need to do anything but go back to the stupid forest you came from.” He growled and an _eep_ popped out of her lips, her temporary bout of fury replaced with caution. The door went to slam shut. He stuck his foot in, barely feeling as the two met.

“I need to see har,” he trained his voice, keeping as much of the growl as he could at bay. Desperation was leaking through. And though he rarely liked showing that to anyone, there was only so long one could go without breaking rules. Especially in times of need. “Please. She doesn’t understand-”

“She seemed to understand fine.”

“But she doesn’t! She doesn’t- there was- I never meant-” he pinched his jackknife nose, took a breath. “I want ta fix this. Alright? I want to fix this.”

Dawn twisted her lip. Thought. “What if… what if she doesn’t want to. Are you going to take her away.” She looked behind him, as if ready to see two crones carrying a burlap sack.

“No. I’ll leave.”

“You promise.”

“Kings honor.”

Dawn didn’t look happy. But then again, neither did any of them. She did consent in moving away from the door though, watching the goblin rush past her, a mumbled thanks falling around her feet.

_He is so lucky Dad isn’t here_ , the blonde thought, watching at he clumsily navigated the halls and calling out to him when he took a wrong turn. _No one would survive._

* * *

Marianne was miserable.

She had woken up feeling great. Now she was just miserable. And apparently the world did not feel like mirroring her emotions. Outside a bird chirped against a robin eggs blue sky. A few cheery bubbles from a river swam through. There was singing, most likely from the elves down the way. She buried her head, covered her ears. Her forehead fell flat to her knees.

She didn’t move when a hesitant knock proclaimed itself on her door. “Dad… I don’t want to talk now… Just… just-” she sniffled. “I’ll be down soon, okay?”

There was no answer. Her arms went around her head. Her father had most likely went to go console Dawn who was no doubt furious at her. And she could not handle that right now. She closed her eyes, glad for the darkness, but hating it all the same.

“Marianne?”

Her head snapped up and she scrambled away from the door only to remember it was locked, but she barely relaxed. Her breath stalled, heart slamming woefully to try and get through her chest, unlock the door and sing a million praises she would never let it.

That was not her fathers voice.

“Marianne…?”

That was not her sisters voice.

“Marianne, please.”

It was a miracle that she found her own. “Go away.” It came out jagged, croaked from sore lungs.

This was not right. She had to hate him. This was how it had to go. When she’d found Roland she’d left and that had been the end of that. She’d waited long enough to change, to become something she had always been. She had isolated herself, buried away until blooming once more- better, stronger. This was to be her second metamorphosis. It was more painful, but it was to be her path to a person she did not know yet. He was supposed to go away and let her, not be at her door, stopping her from enduring it all over again.

Roland never came back to her after she’d seen him. She’d never know if she would have taken him back. But he’d never come. Never knocked on her door begging forgiveness or explaining what had gone wrong. He’d just waited until he’d gotten bored with the fairy girl and had tried once more to squirm his way through her chest. And by then she’d had enough time to form a chrysalis and watch it harden. And he couldn’t get through. No one could.

Except for the Bog King.

And some part of her waited for him not to come back and to get bored of someone and run to her out of the blue professing his love. But he hadn’t. He was at her door. And he was knocking, calling her name. And he was everything Roland wasn’t. And she wasn’t sure to be relieved or hate him all the more for that. Why couldn’t he just let the second layer coat over her and harden and hollow her out.

“Marianne, please. Open tha door.”

“Go away,” and she hated how pathetic she sounded. “Just… just _go away_.”

“I will. I’ll dui anathin. But please… please let me explain.”

“I don’t want you to explain,” it was meant to sound bitter, but it was anything but lassitudinous. “I want to be alone.”

“I’ll go away!” he was inexorable. She heard his claws click on the door. “I will! I promise. Just… just please let me explain.”

And Marianne, being filled with enough ineffable grief to spill over, simply sat back against the door and waited. There was a moments passing of silence. Then a very slow _hissing_ \- a _shushing_ of hard back, wings, bones and sharp edges sliding against something flat, smooth. He was sitting against the door now, his back to her. She closed her eyes trying hard to imagine him away and feel him against her all at once. The heavy quiet was an invitation. He took it.

“She… she came ta me…” his accent was a murmur, but the door was thin and nothing was hidden between them but sight. She looked down at the slats of light from under, cast in from the hall, and saw the static of his hands drumming, feet twitching, interrupting the swath of halcyon gold. “I didn’t know she’d be there.” She heard a buzz followed by quiet rumble of wings forgetting their place and hitting wood. “I didnaugh know she’d be there-”

“And that makes it okay-”

“No!” She could see his blue eyes open, try to backtrack and find new words to hold onto. “Naugh of course not. But… I didn’t think that she’d do that either. I was trying to get har to leave. She grabbed me. Ye… ye walked in when she… you know-”

“When you kissed her.”

“When she kissed me.”

Marianne fumbled with the edge of her wing. She felt tired. Worn. Rubbed away from the world. Only one other time had she felt like that. “I found Roland with another girl, you know.” It came out without any reason. And she hadn’t really wanted to say it. But it had come out, cascaded off of her shoulders and into the air and once out it hung like a frustrated monster, infuriated that she had shared it to the world.

She heard him take in a breath, and the compunction mulled itself with rage to create such a breathtaking feeling she nearly bowled over.

“When?”

“On the day of our wedding.”

She heard him growl and wasn’t sure why she was happy for it. He had no right, as far as she was concerned, to feel rage towards the man… a man like…

But she could not do it. As angry as she was, as heartbroken as she would be for days to come, he would never be Roland. Ever. He was too kind. Too sweet. Too shy and misunderstood and caring and doting and too many things to mention that were all distinctly Not Roland that to compare him to the leech would be cruel.

“I just- I went to go give him a present. Or… I don’t know… something like that. And he had been telling me how he wanted to see me and couldn’t wait to get married and I was so unsure but… but I knew that was stupid because he was so good looking and he had told me that he… you know… he told me a million times over. And I _believed_ it. And then I went to go give him the gift-” she had never talked about this, she realized. Not once. Not to anyone. And the more she talked the more she remembered. “There was another girl there,” she explained slowly. “She was… she was beautiful. I remember that she was beautiful. And then I ran. And he didn’t come back until the night before-” she swallowed.

“Marianne-”

“It was a while before I saw him again.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, my dad was mad that I didn’t marry him.”

She heard Bog snort. “Why?”

“He wanted me to be with someone.” She wiped at her eyes. “He was handsome. Rich. He could lead an army. It was a good match.”

“Seems like terrible reasons.”

“And he was so angry at me when I came back.” She burst out a wet sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob . “It’s such a stupid tradition. I mean, we live in mud most days. But… but on wedding days Fairies wear these white dresses. And he got so angry that I got mine dirty. But I just got rid of it.”

“I’m sure ye looked lovely.” She wanted to despise him for that comment. He was just trying to butter her up and soften her down to nothing. But it had sounded sincere. Soft. And she could nearly see him with the cogs churning trying to imagine her shrouded in white folds of incandescence. And most likely failing. White had never been her color.

“I stuck out. Especially in the Dark Forest when I-” she stalled. Oh. She had never told him that. She heard his nails stall.

“Tha Dark Forest?”

“Oh… ah… yeah. I- I was just kind of lost. I was so happy. Or- I don’t know. I was something. And I just wasn’t looking where I was going and I ended up in the bottom of a ditch holding a petal-”

“You were the fairy.” And though he barely sounded any less desperate, guilty, she could hear the humor. “They told me a fairy had tried to steal a primrose.”

“Yeah… that was me.”

“Odd how things would have been different if I’d strolled down to say hello.”

Her chuckle was real, as was his, and it helped. At least a little. She hugged herself, wings fluttering about her shoulders, bobbing against the door. Too soon after not a scintilla of a grin was to be found. “I didn’t ever get why he did it.”

“Because he was an arrogant fool who desarved his wings ripped off,” she could see the flare of fury behind blue, hear his claws retracting, jaw jutted.

She couldn’t share in his rage. She’d been angry. She’d done it years ago. And now she was done hosting hatred with the born again Narcissus. She wiped at her face again and wondered why she was still crying. “I guess… but… but it hadn’t mattered. I just… I wasn’t good enough. I’ve never been good enough. And then I think I might be and I see him there with someone who’s better and… and…” a beat. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Bog. It’s okay. You don’t have to-”

“No, Marianne, ye didn’t do anathin wrong! Not even a little! You listen to me,” She heard him turn, his hand pressed against the door. “It was nevah you. It was always him. Always. You coulda done everythin’ different and it still would’a ended with him going about doin that. That was who he was. And honestly, I dunnai undarstand why.”

“Understand what?”

“How could he even look at another when he had ye?” And cheesy as it was, it was so sincere she was near rhapsodic. Another sob made its way up and this time she didn’t hold it back, coming out as a sort of an ugly choke. “Marianne! Don’t- I didn’t mean-!”

“No… I- I- you didn’t do anything-” and her lip quirked up regardless of how much complete sorrow was everywhere. And why oh why did she feel so completely in love with this man after what he’d done. She had trust issues. She knew that. So how was it that after seeing… that… she was so willing?

“Marianne… I swear. I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen. I dunnai… I don’t lo-” he swallowed. “I don’t _love_ her.” And she knew that had too much of everything to say. “I didnaugh mean for it. Ye have to believe me.”

“I do.” And even she jumped up at her words. She heard him spin round, a small sound of success and hope breathed from between his fangs, flattened. She was even more surprised to find that she really did. She did believe him. He wouldn’t have done it. He would have never done that to her. And how could she think he ever had.

Then why was it she still felt so hopelessly lost. She wrung her hands together. Stared down at her soft skin.

And then she knew exactly why. “It looked right.” The words were meant for herself- a discovery. He shared it.

“What-?”

“The reason why- I just- I saw you together and… you two… you looked so… _right_.”

“… Marianne…?”

“You fit together.” Her fingers wound round each other. She looked right with you. And you looked right with- you looked right together.”

“Come on. You don’t mean that!” Desperate. Scared. Understanding. “You don’t.”

“I do! You could have… you could have had her but you ended up with me. A fairy.” A few drops fell off her cheeks, another embedding itself in the hairline above her ear. She swiped at them stubbornly. “You were so in love with her. She was your first. She came back for you. You could save your image and you could work together- fit together better than… than-” and she couldn’t finish.

There was silence on the other side. She wondered for a moment if he had left. Or maybe he was thinking about it. Her chest hurt.

“I get if you want to leave,” and her voice is so soft it barely catches against her own ears. “That woman… she’s more beautiful.” She wiped at her eyes and tried to conceal a sniffle but it hardly worked. “Some of your subjects explained it to me. And she made that very clear. That both lands have this… this _standard of beauty_.” Those words were filled with poison and packed away so as to leave no room for her. There wasn’t room for her in either world, she was learning. And there never would be. “She’s beautiful, Bog. And… and if you want to be with her I wouldn’t stop you. And I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t hate you… I don’t think I could. _Never_.”

There was still no sound.

“I just…” There was a pause. “You can leave… I won’t hate you,” she said again. “I won’t. You’d be getting what you’ve wanted and I… I don’t want to stop you.” She didn’t. She truly didn’t. “If you want to leave, you can…” Her wings, shuddered, folded around her. Her head fell against the door with a gentle clunk. “You don’t have to stay here. And you don’t have to apologize. I don’t want to do this to you. Not now. Not ever.” She stared down at her hands which looked more like blurs now. Something wet ran down the tip of her nose and pearled against her thumb. Another one hit squarely against the heel of her palm. “I just want you to be happy,” came the whisper. And she hoped beyond all hopes that he had heard it. And that that would give him the courage to get up and be happy. And know that she would try to be happy for him.

“Marianne…” And he said it in that way that she loved, exhaling every vowel, syllable, as if to prove that she was as much a part of him as air and without her he might die and that near sent a sob ripping out of her throat. She held it back and it tore the base of her lungs, stinging. He was not gone. And he was saying her name.

She leaned against the wood, ear pressing subtly against smooth mahogany. From there she could hear his breath, the clacking of his long nails. The door was thin, but she still felt miles away from him on her side. The back of her hand brushed the wooden surface, trying to imagine she was brushing his hand, feeling so much like rough bark. All she got was smooth. Everything in her kingdom, smoothed out until it no longer caught you, pricked you, cut you. No longer taught you what it was to open up and reach out and have the ability to hurt. Smooth never taught you to trust. So you trusted it anyway.

Smooth was blonde and shiny and new and broke your heart.

What was on the other side of smooth, and she brushed her hand again, may have been no better. And yet here she sat, wanting for nothing more than its happiness. And wanting for nothing more than it to be better.

And that’s why she would leave.

Because he was better, she decided then. He’d made her happy. He’d listened. He’d made her feel special, incredible, loved. And this new woman, his first love, would be so lucky to find another who could give her a tenth of that.

Everyone deserved love. And if they had it then they needed it. And she’d be okay.

“Ye dunnai really want me ta leave, do ye?” _Please say no_ , he was pleading. _Please, I beg you, say no. Because if you say yes, I will. I’d do anything for you. I’d leave for you. I’d let my heart break for you._

Her mind told her to say yes. **_He’ll leave when you say it. He will. You’ll never have to see him again. Ever. Break his heart. It’s too easy. He already broke yours. It’s in your hands, Marianne. You’re the warrior. Do what a warrior would do._** And she buckled up her chest, breathed in deep. “…no…” And that was the truth.

A beat.

“Please… open tha door?”

And she had no more energy. She couldn’t hold onto anything anymore. From outside of the door Bog, sitting slumped, desperately staring at the wood as if she could feel his eyes on her back, heard the click of a lock.

He’s only seen it once before. In anger she curled her wings about her to mope. Dawn had explained that their wings were something of a tool. They used them to fly, yes. But they used them to sleep, to hide, to protect themselves and to bury away when their feelings became too much for the outside world to handle. When they couldn’t deal with all the colors and sounds and people around them they’d go away. Simply curl up and go away.

Marianne hardly ever did it. She never hid.

But when he walked in, slowly pushing the door into her room, the first thing he saw was a purple cocoon on the floor in front of him, feet sticking out and a puff of brown hair near the top. He closed the door, leaned against it, looked at the purple wrappings. All was still and quiet and calm. Outside the sky was trickling blue, slated in and out between twilight. A warm breeze fell through the haze, finding its way through the room and attacking her wings, which fluttered, thankful for the small motion.

He took a deep breath. Stuck all his nerve to one place. It would take a lot to say, but his mother had been right. It had to be said. At some point it all had to be said.

So he said it.

“I dunnai think that I really fell in love with ye until after our third spar. Remember that? When I won. Ye were sore about it fer weeks.” She didn’t move. “My mother thinks we fell in love after… we sang. But that wasnaugh true. I was… affectionate. But… I dunnai.” His face was feverish. “I dunnai,” he said again. “It was odd… different. Strange. An’ it was a month later an’ I wasn’t sure what I was feelin’. But ye were strong an’ smart an’ ye never treated me differently. I wanted ta be better for ye.  An… an’ then when you aren’t around- ye make me better. Ye make me… me.”

Still nothing.

"Don’t think that I dunnai think you’re beautiful. Because if ye even knew how I saw ye. An’ yeh, ye might not _look_ like a goblin. But that dunnai mean… Ye’r different. That’s what makes ye amazing. That’s what makes ye more… more- she’ll never- no one will ever look- _be_ … be like…” He breathed, untwisted his tongue.

“So… if ye want me to leave, that’s… that’s fine. I’ll leave. I will. Truly. An’ I know why yer so mad. But I need ye ta know… I need ta say thank ye.” She stirred, curious. “Thank ye fer makin me better. An’ fer makin me happy. An thank ye fer takin me seriously and not seriously and fer not makin’ me feel hideous-”

“You’re not hideous.” Her head emerged from her wings. “And you aren’t leaving. You’re staying.”

And he melted right there, sliding back against the door with a smile. “Thank the Dark- I dunnai how I would’a done it!” And she realized that the relief was more stemmed from fear. She nodded, moved closer to him. Their shoulders touched.

“So… Nothing… nothing happened. I mean,” she shook her head. Brunette hair flopped. “I know- I knew that nothing had happened. But, I mean-”

“She came in and kissed me. I was taken off guard and then… and then ye walked in. Nothing happened. Nothing would have happened.” Just for reassurance, “I had her taken away. Back to her home. She isn’t comin’ back.”

_**Something could still happen**_ , the hiss came in with a vice, stirring her self consciousness with a golden spoon. “If you want-”

“I dunnaugh want anything to happen,” firmer this time. “I… we… fit.”

“No we don’t,” she turned back to her knees miserably. “We’re different.”

Bog grabbed her chin and she went wide eyed. It was a motion she was used to delivering, and now, as the victim, she understood just why she had done it to him. Nothing was more terrible yet needed than being forced to stare into someones eyes. And his were too blue now. So blue that she wanted to collapse against him, tell him that she believed him, would always believe him. Wish that they could fit. More than anything that they one day might. He had other ideas, and those blues sparkled with determination.

“Isn’t that what makes us fit? Yeh, we’re different. But that’s what I like!” He moved closer, wound an around around her. She didn’t shake him off, so he pulled her close. One of his hands moved to try and wipe the translucent stains on her skin and his rough palms scraped in the most delicious of ways. “I like different.”

“So do I.” She sighed, grabbed his hand. So much larger than hers. _Her_ hand had fit better. “I just- I thought you looked right. And you know what people say.”

“How can I not,” he growled. “I hear it all tha time.”

Another heavy breath. “We are the weirdest couple ever.”

“Agreed.”

“And people hate us together.”

“Always.”

“And we’re going to tell them to shove off.”

“Off mountains if we have ta.” His chin steepled atop her hair, sharp spokes digging into her scalp.

Her mouth quirked, she pressed against him. She didn’t form against him like she would- it never would. But it didn’t feel wrong. “I’m sorry- about today, I mean. I didn’t mean to- I should have listened-”

“It happened before,” he murmured into her hair. “I get it. I acted like-”

“Oh no! Oh no you don’t, Mr. Bog King. You are not going to compare yourself to… to that insufferable son of a-” She bit her lip, took a breath, pressed back against his chest plate. “You. Aren’t. Him. And to think I had even thought to compare you was terrible. I mean-” She should have known that she could trust him when it had hurt. Roland’s betrayal had stung something fierce. Bog’s hadn’t been real. His had near shocked her to nothing. “I trust you,” she stated firmly. “I don’t know what happened. I just… I saw- But I trusted you. I knew I could. I can.”

He squeezed her arm and she took it as a reply. I trust you too.

“Hey, Marianne?”

“Yeah?”

“Our standards of beauty are different. Yer right. But that doesnaugh mean you aren’t- you can’t be. Because… you are.”

He didn’t have to say much else. She got it. And both of them were blushing too much to even describe. “Bog?”

“Yeh?”

She looked away, staring at a panel of wood with interest. “You aren’t ugly,” she said. The panel of wood got more and more interesting. She counted the lines up the side. One, two, three- “You’re beautiful. Inside and out.” four, five, six- “Just… just generally everywhere.” And it had taken every bit of courage to say those words, and she took another breath to steady the nerves buzzing around her head and chest and stomach. And she counted up to thirteen. And she felt his arms tighted around her. Grateful for the impossible and the possible and the How is this My Possible.

At that moment Marianne realized the difference of holding a sword and telling the man she… she… telling him everything wasn’t that she had no weapon, but that she had far too many. And while a sword could do so much it turned out that she willingly cut herself open for him and waiting to either be rifled through or destroyed. She sometimes wished he would. Because the fact that he sewed her back together and added nothing whatsoever because he thought that she was her and that was okay hurt far more. “I mean that… I guess that… I think that you’re beautiful. Too.”

And because she was a brave girl who had not only fought the Bog King but had stood against everyone who said there were still fights to be had she challenged herself to look up. He was looking at her. She expected shock. Not this terrible, horrible look of pure adoration- as if he couldn’t believe that he had found her and how incredibly lucky was he and she was the only person in the entire world who could ever make him like that and- Roland had never looked at her like that.

She cleared her throat, looked away. He followed suit, rubbing the back of his neck, stretching the ligaments.

"Augh, I forgot." Something was pushed into her palm. Soft, chained, separate. She looked down to find her band of blue poppies and smiled.

"Thanks. I was wondering-" she turned it in her hands. "I squashed two."

"I can make another one fer ye."

"I know you can. Your floral hobbies are incredible."

"So are yours." And she didn’t understand until the boutonniere was in his palm. "Thanks fer it, by tha way. I missed the other one."

"I though." She took it, looked at it under the light. "You like it?"

"It’s… lovely."

"It’s hideous."

"Yes." He plucked it from her, sticking it to his shoulder. "But that’s wha’ makes it lovely." She snorted, falling back against him, plopping the crown of squished flowers on top of her head. Her wings fluttered, scraping his own. The final dregs of light soaked through the window, seeping into the floor. Birds began to quiet. The stream outside chuckled. She felt his lips press against the top of her head before his chin once more settled there. Not one of their most passionate moments. But one of their best.

She was finding that passion, while amazing, sometimes felt nothing like this. Nothing like the quiet and calm intimacy where the world looked away for a moment and let them breathe.

She listened to the steady rise and fall of their breaths and closed her eyes. And without anything they really weren’t that different.

But when she did peek open her eyes to look at their hands she wasn’t sure that they were so different after all.

The world would say they were. They just didn’t know what lay behind purple gossamer and greyed exosceleton.

She figured that despite everything, she really still felt quite beautiful. And taking his hand in hers she decided that he should have felt the same. Against all social convention she decided that they may have been the only two in the kingdoms to know what beauty was.

“So…” he broke the silence, moving his fingers against hers. “Are ye still interested in… in council?”

_Be a part of my world,_ he said. _You are enough. You are more than enough. You are my everything._

“Yeah. That sounds… good.”

_I still want to spend forever with you. Marry me soon, won’t you. Because I’m too shy to ask. And you’re too shy to know. And we’re both helpless. But I wont lose you._

“I rescheduled it. For tomorrow. Thought you could, yunno-”

_I love you. Stay the night. Stay forever. Don’t ever leave._

She smiled. “I’ll grab my things,” she said.

_I do._


	3. Proposal: In Which Nothing Happens and the Darkness is Cruel

The Bog King hated that he was bravest at night. But that was simply the way that the world worked. During the day he hid behind a staff with an amber glint and a sharpened snarl. At night he shed them, stepped out from their hardened skin and became brave. Which was a shame. Because when he was brave he said things that mattered.

When he was brave he could change his world for the better.

But he was only brave at night.

Knights were allowed to be brave during the day, glimmering under the sun. Bog was no knight. Bog was a dragon. He slept atop a mound of gold and blew smoke this way and that and forgot to be brave until the moon came out and he could fly without threat of sword or disturbance or judgement of beauty. So things around him remained stagnant and cruel and tortuously happy and quite the opposite of anything brave.

“One day, Marianne,” the Bog King of the Dark Forest whispered to the Fairy Princess asleep beside him, brave as ever under the slashes of reflected light from his window “one day I’m going to marry ye. And not for diplomacy or peace across the border or any other rubbish reason the council suggests. Because I love ye. And that’s all.” Her chest moved up and down, and sometimes he still marveled at the sound of anothers heartbeat next to his own. He moved closer, wrapping his arm around her waist and burying her head beneath the sharpened spokes of his chin. “It’s strange. We met because we both hated love. And now I love ye and I’m going to marry ye.”

The Goblin brushed hair stuck to her brow with a taloned nail. “People don’t like us together. They never will. And I thought yee’d listen. But ye didn’t. And ye told them all off and then told me I was perfectly different.” The young woman stirred, breath hitching for a moment before returning to its melodic cycle. “I have done so much to ye,” he told her, listening to past faults echo in the dark room. “But yee’ve done to much for me. And it’s selfish for me to ask you to do one more thing. But I’m evil. And evil people ask for more than they should.” An owl howled from outside, and he watched its shadow pass above the moonlight, staggering the beams through feathers and a proud span. Bog swallowed, held her tighter. He wondered if she could feel his heart beating hard through an armored chest. “When the time comes… when I ask ye… say yes.”

There was no response. He hadn’t thought there would be. But it was still easier. It was easier to be brave. In the darkness he couldn’t see his own shyness. Marianne never knew that when she was asleep he told her how much he loved her. She would never know that every night for the last month, while she slumbered and the world to her was filled with pink potions and borders made of wildflowers and magic that their lands didn’t even possess, he asked her to marry him.

Bog finally drifted away, confessions stuck to his mind. Guilt heavy everywhere around him, shaking its head at the shyness that sat on his chest shrugging its shoulders forlornly, explaining through stutters _one day. Not today. But one day._

And guilt would always answer with _how is this fair?_

It was fairer than he thought.

Every night, when the room was calm and cool and shrouded with Bog’s own light snores, Marianne would say yes.

 


	4. Sometimes: In Which Our Character Determines the Presence of Sometimes and the Gift that is Always

Sometimes she still pauses.

Sometimes she stands outside of the Dark Forest and stills a moment. Not as much as she used to, and never as often as before, when she barely knew the leader beyond the thorny gate. But enough to be sometimes. And sometimes is enough.

She flies there with intention in mind and lands, walking towards the entrance and it is then that she stills, staring, waiting, breath catching hard in the back of her throat. Her eyes will squeeze shut and her temples with throb with flashes and darkness and creatures all reaching towards her and she wants to scream but she’s forgotten how to speak and she’s unable to move she doesn’t know how to wake up. That’s what scares her most. When she realizes that her conscious has left her and waking up isn’t going to happen on its own.

Sometimes she forgets she needs to.

Sometimes there’s someone there to shake her awake in those moments. Dawn’s voice traveled through most surfaces and that included her sisters steel proofed mind. A few touches, a call over the shoulder or a worried repetition of vowels that must have been her name, had to have been her name, and she would waken with a shake and a smile.

“I’m fine,” she’d tell Dawn, always tell Dawn. “I’m fine.” Dawn was easy to trick, fast believe her, but Marianne knew it could only last so long. So she did her best to leave her feet on the ground. But sometimes - _sometimes_ \- there was no helping the memories that flooded, sour and hot, and she had to wait until her sister dragged her back to the surface.

Sometimes no one found her. She would wake up and realize where she was. Sometimes it would last seconds. Minutes. On two occasions she stood while the sundial ticked away and it was only her feet, giving up under the pressure of an hours doing, helped her to fall to the ground. Sometimes she was scared she might not wake up from it.

Sometimes it was Bog who found her. She was never there for long, but long enough to cause worry. _Why hadn’t she showed up? Where could she be?_ He rarely made a habit of flying over the border, but for her he was tentative and careful and skimmed through the entrance. He would find her there amongst the grasses looking more like their kin than the fairy she was. Straight backed, fists holding the air at her sides until her knuckles turned as white as he face had become. He’d call her name and she’d hear him - _she would, sometimes, she truly would_ \- but her eyes were too wide to see anything but the images of past atmosphere and her breath was too stilled to be anything near alive and she belonged in the past where clawed hands could tear and hurt and capture.

Sometimes she woke up before he shook her. Sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes when that happened - _she hated when that happened_ \- she wasn’t ready to be pulled from whatever place she was taken to and it lingered through the haze of red until even the color blue was malicious. Her hand would fall to her sword and fear would cross her features and she would be ready for something and sometimes she even knew what that something was.

And she was beginning to notice that it sometimes took her longer and longer to realize who he was. She always did. But sometimes she worried that one day she wouldn’t. Blinking alive once more, the past released its fangs and the poison sank from her head to reside once more in her blood. Never leaving, it pulsed painfully no matter what she did, but the haze of feverish portraits sunk away to see something in front of her that wasn’t part of the pulse in her ears and she’d remember to breathe in a moment, and she’d take in the real world with one shuddering breath. And he’d be there, afraid and curious and stooped and wonderful.

“Bog!” she’d say, “You scared me!” laughing through teeth still sore from pressure.

“Are you… alright?” He’d always ask. His hand would reach for her and stall. Afraid of himself, maybe. Or perhaps something else. She was never quite sure.

“I’m fine.” And she’d nod hard enough to cast spots in her eyes. “Just tired. Too many meetings. You know how it is.” Sometimes he’d believe her.

_Sometimes._

A swallow and a nod and cerulean eyes flooding over with hurt. Those looks were the ones that hurt her more than bruises or memories or blonde men with quicksand hearts. The look that said _I don’t believe you._ Yes. Sometimes he did believe her. But it was somehow worse when he didn’t.

* * *

Sometimes she still has nightmares.

Sometimes she wakes up soaked with sweat, shaking enough to cause the Earth below her to still and sits in the Darkness, waiting to see if everything sleep has told her has come true.

When she is in her own room - _and sometimes she is_ \- her sister wakes her up. Maybe she screamed or maybe she just knew, but Dawn is always quick to pad into Marianne’s room and shake her until the claws gave and allowed her to be released and she’d come into a world where she was still alive and Dawn was not captured and so much had gone right - _or had it_ \- and they’d sit together pooled underneath the satin moonlight and breathe until the air was steady.

When Dawn would wake her, Marianne would sometimes ask questions. Not big questions. _Never_ big questions. But quick, short, needing questions. Sometimes she knew the answers, and sometimes she didn’t. But she asked them regardless because the sound of truth was sweeter from the lips of another and drinking them through pipes of stars and exhaustion did its part to sedate her.

“ _Who am I…?_ ” She’d sometimes ask, checking, making sure.

“You’re Marianne.” Dawn would hug her. “You’re my sister.”

“And Roland?”

“He’s a petulant and vain ass who still works for Father because he’s a little bit of a petulant vain ass too.”

And through her smile and her tears - _because sometimes she woke up crying, though Dawn would never say as much_ \- Marianne would chuckle “but we love him.”

“But we love him,” Dawn would smile back, agreeing.

“And… and the Bog King…” Some days she wasn’t sure what to call him because sometimes her dream spoke his name and she parroted it with perfect and terrified obedience.

“You mean Boggy? You’re in love with him. And he’s in love with you. And you two are a bunch of idiots who haven’t gotten married yet, but one day you will.” She smiled wickedly. “And don’t tell him this, but Sunny and I have a bet on you two. He thinks it’ll take you longer than I do.” She would throw her arm around Marianne and the latter, in turn, would rest a head of mussed hair against a smooth, milky shoulder. “Maybe I’m just too much of a romantic-”

“You are.”

“-but I know these things. And you two are too much in love to wait.” She’d always pause there. No matter what she was saying she always paused before the last sentence, perhaps scared that she wouldn’t leave enough of an impact on the metaphysical world in her final statements were never introduced by dramatic pauses. “Though you’re both idiots, so he might win in the end after all, so you’d best hurry up and help me or I’m going to lose a whole ten pieces.”

Sometimes her sister was smarter than people gave her credit for.

Sometimes she woke up alone in her room. Maybe her sister was too tired or out with Sunny or anywhere else. She wasn’t supposed to be there every time, and Marianne didn’t expect her to. But waking up alone was never good. The shadows were so cruel when you were alone. They loomed and twisted and bared fangs. Sometimes she sat, paralyzed, staring at a figure in front of her made of whatever the moon had seen fit to press into the physical. Sometimes it was hulking with fists of laundry piles and a head of a flower pot. Sometimes it slithered and hissed and stroked her windows with fingers of grass and wheat.

Sometimes it was him. And sometimes he had his staff, stilled over his head, and an elf with a voice that carried was not there and the darkness didn’t allow the moon to reveal its true nature

Sometimes she was scared of that darkness.

When she was alone and she woke from the dream - _it was always the same dream, though how far and how long it went sometimes differed_ \- she would have to wait for it to end. When she wasn’t lucid she sometimes talked to the thing - _and she sometimes felt guilty for using that word_ \- and did what she could to stop it from doing what he was trying to do.

“Please,” she’d say to the thing that was him but wasn’t. “Please, no! I don’t want to d- my sister needs m- please, Bog. _Please_.”

The thing never answered. Sometimes it stayed for longer, but it never answered.

Sometimes it scared her that it didn’t.

Sometimes she woke up with Bog there. It’s these times that she wished she was alone because sometimes - _oh please, help her, sometimes_ \- she awakens in tears from the memory of his face. The one that he makes once he wraps golden threads around her and tugs her from slumbers wracked with horror and terror and so much shouting. Sometimes she wonders if she says any of it out loud, if he can hear her pleading, begging, praying that he’ll let her live because she’s simply not ready and she never thought life this cruel.

Sometimes she knows that he can.

He wakes her up, shaking her gently by her shoulders until, in a gasp of air bursting through needy lungs, she is ripped from her own self to come back to him.

“It’s okay,” he would tell her. “It’s okay. _You’re_ okay. Nothing happened. _I’m here._ ” And sometimes it’s enough.

But sometimes - _and doesn’t she just hate this sometimes_ \- she jerks away from him before she can feel the fires burn. Before he can hurt her again. Before his claws can reach her. He always moves away for her when it happens, raising his hands in the air in surrender, letting her know that she’s okay - _you’re alright, and I won’t (would never) hurt you_ \- and the world is the same as when she left it. Sometimes it takes her seconds, sometimes it takes her minutes. One night she left, wings stretched out with the sound of plaster exploding into air and shot out the window into the night, tearing away with the sound of her name shattering into colored glass at her heels. He had found her later that night, curled up on a tree branch, confused and alone and searching and freezing. He had draped a blanket over her shoulders and held her for hours and hadn’t asked her anything.

Sometimes he didn’t ask anything, and sometimes he did. But he always held her. _Always_. His arms would wrap around her form with enough force to try and piece her together once again, trying to press together what was broken and convince her that she wasn’t. But whenever he asked - _and sometimes he did_ \- she was never sure how to answer.

“Ye had a nightmare…” he would say slowly, heavily. She would nod into his chest and hope it was enough, knowing it never would be. “Ye can tell me what it was, ye know. Ye can trust me.” He would hold her tighter. “You _can_. I would _never_ hurt you. I would never… never…”

And sometimes she’d say, just loud enough for the slits of light to hear, “ _I know_ …”

Someday she’d have to tell him.

Some days she was scared he’d leave before she could.

* * *

Sometimes she’s afraid he’ll realize just who he’s with.

She isn’t fragile, but he treats her like she is. Like he’ll break her. He has claws and teeth and sometimes they break skin and leave her bleeding and scratched and bruised. And she doesn’t mind - _sometimes she wears them proudly because everyone knows just who she’s with_ \- but he does. Sometimes he’s scared that he’ll truly hurt her. Hurt her until she’ll leave. Hurt her past any return.

She knows he won’t, he wouldn’t. But sometimes…

“I love you.” She says it to him most in the darkness of his room. Tracing the sharp contours of his face and memorizing him. She’ll be ready when she loses him - _she will lose him because she loses everything and is always the cause of it, can never stop it from leaving_ \- and she’ll have something to remember on the nights when she’s the most lonely. “I love you so much. Because you’re amazing. And you’re perfect. And it hurts me when you don’t think it. Because no one can be better than you. Not even me. And I wish you knew that.”

His breathing would echo to the top of his high ceiling and mix with the moonlight. Sometimes swirls of mist from the forest would stretch through the slats of wood covering the windows and look like the wings of creatures too breathtaking for the world. She would move closer to him and his arms would curl around her and she would suddenly remember how strong he was, deceptively so for a lanky frame. Her sister had once asked her if Bog’s skin was cold, hard. Pressed against him she would often smirk. Because she had wondered to. But he was warm. _Oh so warm_. And he curled around her in a way that sometimes made her wonder if his shell really was all that hard after all. Because no one so hard could ever be so soft. So loving. So perfectly caring.

Sometimes she wished her skin was that soft. Sometimes she wondered if she’d forgotten to be soft too long ago. Sometimes she wondered if Roland had won. If he had ruined her and made her forget how to love.

“I want you to be happy,” she’d tell the sleeping Bog. “That’s what you deserve above all else. To be happy. And I’m afraid that I can’t give that to you. Not really…” She’d always stop then and wonder. _Did she? Could she?_ Sometimes she was sure she did but sometimes…

“I love you,” she’d tell him once more - _always once more_ \- and her declaration would hit empty atmosphere and wait to evaporate into the mist wings.

She wished she had the courage to tell him that she loved him. And not with I love you. But truly… really… How his kiss could sent her toes curling and her wings fluttering. How his breath filled her until she remembered that she was alive. How his voice was silk ties always in her mind. How she sometimes breathed him in - _sometimes she wished she could remember perfectly how he smelled_ \- and told him that she wasn’t trying to. But she would. And she would dissect everything that made him quintessentially him and try so hard to replicate it. To find the plant, the flower, the one single beam of moonlight that clung to his form and invaded her heart with cruel flutters of ancient needs. She never would. Sometimes she wished that she could. So when he left - _he would leave, she knew he would_ \- she could fall asleep and remember…

 **Sometimes** she wished she could remember better.

 **Sometimes** she wished she didn’t have to.

 **Sometimes** she wished…

 **Sometimes** ….

Always **sometimes**.

 **Sometimes** she’s afraid that he’ll leave her. Or that she’ll find him just like the first time.

 **Sometimes** she’s afraid her father will never approve. Or will send an army. Or will cut her ties to the only thing she has left.

 **Sometimes** she’s afraid that one day he’ll realize who he’s with. That he’s a goblin and she’s a fairy and she was just born to be pretty. That she had to shape herself, remake herself, and that he isn’t worth the person who poured her being into a mold.

 **Sometimes** she’s afraid that today, yesterday, tomorrow, will be the day he ends it. And he has to end it. Not her. Because she can’t. She never could. He’s the rock, the pillar, the sword. He supports and protects and allows her to do the same and without him everything might just crumble.

 **Sometimes** she wishes that he would. Because he deserves more. And **sometimes** it kills her that he doesn’t realize that.

* * *

So many of their discussions are held in the dark. She forgets though, and it always surprises both of them when the discussion starts. But it does. Perhaps it’s because darkness makes brave fools out of both of them. And while they’re both already brave in some aspects they have to be fools to remember how to talk.

“You’re afraid of me…”

She nearly jumps at the sound of his voice around him. It surprises her so much that she nearly misses what he’s said. But it does eventually hit and when it does she was left confused. Surveying the area she can see and feel his arm around her, his claws biting gently into her abdomen. There are teeth scrapes on the curve of her neck where he’d left them that afternoon after a rather incredible spar. And she was sure that she had left quite a few good nips on his ears.

“Bog, really? I doubt that half of the marks you left on me, which by the way is totally unfair, you’re skin is way thicker, was not me being afraid.” She tries her best to make sure that he can hear the smile in her voice. Because besides the fact that she’s a little bit more than confused and a lot bit nervous about where he might be going, she can still put on a smile. “I’m not afraid. I’m tough. I’m your tough girl, remember?” She does her best to kick him lightly from her place conformed onto his front, both facing the tall walls across his bed.

He’s silent another moment and his chin finds a place against her hair. “You’re afraid of me…” he says again, quieter, scared. “ _Please_ , Marianne, you can tell me. If I’ve done anything-”

“No! No, you haven’t. You couldn’t.”

“But-”

“No.” She said it with more anger than she thought she would and it scares both of them into silence. She sighed, wiggled around in his arms and he let go, thinking that she was leaving most likely, but she’s not. She wouldn’t. She just turns and presses her front against his. Her ear pressed against his chest and she listened to his heart beating, breath catching in her chest. “I’m sorry…” she has to remember how to breathe as it catches in her throat. She’s not sure what she’s apologizing for. “I’m so sorry-”

“Please tell me, Marianne.”

“There isn’t anything-”

“Please.” From outside an owl howls. “If I’ve hurt ye, scared ye… I’m trying to use teeth less! And… and I promise that I’m trying to listen more to the Foresters and I- I know that there have been some issues with the borders but- but I- and if it’s the nightmares, ye can tell me! Ye can. But _please_ … let me fix it. I _can_ fix it.” He sounds so desperate, so scared, so _hopeless_ , and Marianne doesn’t know how to deal with it. So she pressed her eyes against him and drowns away the world into an eternal darkness.

He waits.

She thinks.

She breathes.

“It isn’t you. What’s going on. It isn’t you.”

“When yee’re outside the Dark forest. When I had to wake you up from…” he isn’t sure what to call it and neither is she.

“Me. That was me.”

“And the nightmares-”

“Me again.”

“But what about-”

“It’s all me, Bog. Not you. Me. It’s all things that I have to learn to deal with.”

“But why do you have to do it alone?”

“Because…” but she can’t find a good answer. Because she doesn’t want to. And he knows it.

“I’ll help you,” he whispers into her ear, dragging fingers along her spine, careful of her wings. “Ye aren’t broken, Marianne. But I’m not going ta let ye do this alone. I’m not.” He’s supposed to sound determined, and he does. But also so afraid. So desperate. So, _so_ desperate. “ _Please_ tell me.”

She snuggles against him and has to blink back the burning in his eyes. “Okay…” he slumps, relieved. “I can’t… I can’t tell you everything. I’m not- I don’t know if-”

“When you’re ready,” he pressed his lips to her temple.

It’s then that she truly has to try to keep back the tears. “I… I’m afraid.”

“Of me.”

“No… but… my dreams… the flashbacks… they’re always- are always… you always… you’re in them.”

“What am I-”

“When you kidn- Dawn.” She lets it settle and it does. She can hear him swallow. “And the forest. I fell into it once with a primrose and I was almost… it’s just stuck with me for a while. But none of that… that’s not important. None of that is.”

“Marianne-”

“I was weak, Bog.” The admission comes out quickly and she can’t stop it. But she didn’t know it was coming, and she hates how loose her mind and tongue can be in that moment. He’s waiting, though, and she can’t leave it there. “I can’t stop things from happening. And I get caught up in these things that haunt me and they hurt everyone around me. I mess up. I always mess up. And this thing that we have. I don’t want to…”

“You don’t want… us.”

“No! Oh God, Bog, no! I want this! I want this more than anything but-”

“ _Please_.”

“I’m going to mess it up. I know I am. And you…” she chokes back something. Maybe its a sigh. Maybe its a sob. “You deserve so much more.”

“I don’t deserve _anything_.”

“You know that’s not true.” He doesn’t. She knows he doesn’t. “But sometimes… sometimes I’m afraid that you’ll…” She breathes him in, takes him in, feels him under her palm- his rising and falling chest and the way his wings flutter in concern, buzzing against the moss. “I lose everything.”

“Not me.”

“You don’t have to, Bog. I don’t need-”

“ _Not_. _Me_.” He leans back and forces her to look at him. His eyes have never been deeper, bluer, and they cut through the dark with intent. “Understand this, Marianne. Ye won’t lose me. Ye can’t lose me. Because I’ll find you. Wherever ye go, I’ll find ye. I’ll always wake you up outside the gate and I’ll pull you out of a nightmare. _Always_. Ye won’t lose me. Because if yee’re scared of getting lost…” -her eyes popped open and she wanted to demand how he knew before she did- “You aren’t lost. But… but I won’t let ye do that either. Because yee’re worth finding. Yee’re worth searching for. _Always_.”

The darkness swallowed her after that. But it was a comfort, as it hadn’t been in so long. She clung to him within it.

“I’m going to try,” she rasped. “I’ll try to tell you everything. Every nightmare. Every fear. Everything. But please don’t let me lose you and don’t lose me because sometimes-”

“When yee’re ready. Only when yee’re ready.”

And after that there would be silence and limbs gripping limbs and a moon peeking through and the steady breathing of trust and a whisper, “ _I’m ready._ ”

And in return; “I’m here. _Always_.”

And though they didn’t stop, they wouldn’t stop yet but he told her to be patient, not her strongest suit, and one day he was sure they would - _not completely, but one day_ \- they lessened. And she woke up less alone. And she remembered to breathe. Because despite the sometimes’ he was an always. Until she said so, he told her - _and she never would_ \- he would be an always.

Sometimes she was still scared that day would come. And someday she’d tell him so. And he’d embrace her then. But he wouldn’t tell her she was _silly_. Or that she was _broken_. Or that she was _lost_. But he did tell her to please, please, _please_ remember that she can tell him and he’ll wait and when she’s ready, _always_ when she’s ready.

She loves him for it. _Always_ loves him for it.

Marianne’s life is filled with _sometimes_. But more and more, she was realizing, was it always filled with an _always_.

And for now, that was enough.


	5. Fair Sun, Envious Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: A Drabble in Which a Bet is Made, a Moon is Pondered and a Sun is Watched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Named after one of my favorite lines from Romeo and Juliet, 
> 
> Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,  
> Who is already sick and pale with grief  
> That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she…

He supposed it had all began with a conversation earlier in the week. Maybe it was on a Monday. Or perhaps it had been a Tuesday. And, looking back, the Bog King couldn’t have told you if it had been morning or evening or what have you. But he did remember the conversation itself.

“You almost never come to the Light Kingdom.” Marianne stated, the tiniest bit of resentment slithering behind the tease.

He looked up from where he was lounging against a moss bed. He’d promised to show her new corners of the Dark Forest and she’d come with bated breath, practically buzzing at the chance of exploration. It was something he so dearly loved about her. That she was willing to poke her head around corners and see what others would not. Too many of the Fairy Folk were too terrified to tip-toe up to the border, let alone pass through the thorny entrance. And even if they had, he doubted they’d see more than a trap- a void of light and hope and much else snapped shut with all the chaos of venus plants jaws.

Not that he didn’t intend for it to look that way. One of his small but impactful defenses was outward appearance.

That just became significantly more difficult when outward appearance was dismissed. More difficult and… pleasant.

Marianne was the one who made it that way. And he wasn’t complaining.

That day he’d woken up feeling particularly loved and had decided to bring her to some of the more appealing sights the forest had to offer. She argued that all the sights were appealing (including the King that acted as her guide) but he dismissed that with a fluttering hand and a badly hidden blush. “Just you wait,” he’d told her, hardly keeping the grin from splitting his face. The day turned out as expected. She’d practically bounced to and fro at the alluring displays of foliage, the skimming light of trees against crumbling past villages taken over by vines and small red blooms that aromatized the ghostly village with cloves and spices. Her favorite, the spot they now resided in for the time, was a tiny stream that ran its way through the middle of the forest. Usually hidden under brushes it was easy to miss unless you knew where the break in covering was. A tiny circlet of a spot filled with light, chirping birds and the rattling of centipedes making their ways over the dips in land.

“Sorry, what was that, love?”

She paused where she floated, her wings bobbing about with smooth efficiency, feet just skimming over the cool water. “I said, you never visit the Light Kingdom. Well… almost never. Except to, yunno, pick me up or steal my sister.”

He scowled at her, the reference piercing just where she wanted it to, and shifted in his place to better glare at her from a more comfortable position. “First of all, I didn’t steal your sister. I… _borrowed_ her. Which is entirely different.” She opened her mouth to argue and he quickly continued, “and I thought you _liked_ the Dark Forest.”

“First of all,” Marianne mimicked him with a cool stare, “you _kidnapped_ my sister. Not that I’m complaining or anything, I mean, I didn’t have to deal with her love potioned up. Ain’t that right my little _Sugar Pie Honey Bunch_.”

“ _Stop_.”

“But that doesn’t matter! That’s not what I’m _saying_.” Her foot skimmed one of the rocks below her and she landed with a light plop against the ripple smoothed platform. “I do like the Dark Forest. It’s _amazing_.” Bog’s thoughts went from gloomy to prideful in a moments time and her smirk told him that she’d spotted his happy flush. He ducked his head.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. It’s one of my favorite places, Bog. You _know_ that.” He did. But it still felt nice to hear. “I just think… I mean you’ve showed me all these amazing things. Wouldn’t it be nice to, I dunno, see what the Light Fields have to offer?”

“What the Light Fields have to offer…” she must have missed his tone because she kept going cheerfully forward.

“Yeah! You act as a tour guide all the time. And it’s great. It is. But I could show you around. Show you all that stuff that you wouldn’t be able to see if we didn’t have this… this thing going on. I mean, you never traveled out before we met, right? So there’s tons of stuff to see. All the… you know… magical strange stuff.” He tilted his head at her before looking around. Wasn’t this _magical_ and _strange_?

“Uh… I suppose…”

Her wings drooped and she found a spot on the streams bottom to stare at, face growing hot. “No please, don’t jump so high. Your enthusiasm is drowning me.”

“Oh! No, no, that’s not-” he rubbed the back of his neck, casting her a quick grin. “I mean, I would. I just don’t…” he chuckled, “I mean, _honestly_ Marianne, how much is there to see in the Light Kingdom?” She blinked at him. He blinked at her. “Uh… _Marianne_?”

“Are you serious?”

“Uh…”

“What do you mean how much is there to see? It’s a Kingdom. It’s not a two by four patch of grass!”

“I mean… uh… what I meant was-”

“We actually have stuff there, you know. Lot’s of stuff. More than your… than your stupid forest.”

“Oi! Watch it!” He pointed his staff at her, scowling. “You happen to _like_ this stupid forest.”

“Yeah. I do. I love it, Bog. But why aren’t I allowed to show you why you can also love the Light Fields.”

“Because, Marianne, _my dearest_ ,” and he gave her a smile that reminded her that she’d already punched him in the face once before, and then proceeded to egg her on into replaying that moment a few times in the back of her eyes for strictly therapeutic reasons. “the Light Fields are exactly that. A field. And to my knowledge of land, a field is a large open space with flowers, sky and one or two pretty faces for decoration.” She seethed at him. “A forest on the other hand, specifically mine if I may be so humble-”

“You may not.”

He ignored her with a wave. “It’s more of a mystery. More to discover. More to explore. Just _more_ in general, actually. Not like a _field_.”

“Hey, my fields have more.”

“Oh _please_! Spare me your-” Bog was cut off with a sword tip in front of his face. He crossed his eyes to stare at it before lazily dragging his eyes to it’s owner, a picture of smug anger, if such a thing could exist.

“I’ll have you know,” she cautioned, eyes flickering to his staff, daring him to swat her away, “that my Kingdom can _astound_ and _mesmerize_ you.”

“Oh really,” he drawled, far too relaxed for a man with a sword in his face. As insurance she gave his nose a slight poke with the sharp tip. He growled at her, pushing the blade away with his hand. “And what makes you think that, _Tough Girl_?”

“I just know, that’s how.” She went to poke him in the chest with her sword and had to blink away sparks when his staff seared the edge of the steel with purpose.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Fine!” Marianne leapt to the air and he followed, his teeth in an upturned snarl, brow low and heavy and malicious. “Just know that I’m going to get you to see something! And if I do manage-”

“If you manage,” he swung at her and she skittered back through the air, her own grin purposeful. “I’ll admit it. I’ll say that your boring fields are as good as my forest.”

“ _And_ …”

He puckered his lips, staff falling out of place a moment in thought. “I’ll…” the amber shone as it leveled with her chest, “ _I’ll come to your Summer Festival_.”

Her jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I _would_.”

Her own purpled lips puckered. She ho’d. She hummed. The fist holding her sword fell against her hip, blade just over her left foot. “Okay…” she finally said. He leered, holding out his hand to shake on the deal but she cut him off with the sword again. “Two extra conditions.”

“Let’s hear them, Tough Girl.”

“If I can _astound_ and _mesmerize_ you with something from my Kingdom you have to come to the Summer Ball. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“Correct.”

“And you’ll admit my side is just as good?”

“More or less.”

She snorted, but let that one drop. “Fine. But, my conditions.” And now her leer was no less evil and Bog, though he really shouldn’t have with his reputation on the line, wondered if he could be any less attracted to her at that moment. “I have to wear Royal Garb. My dad is making me.” _Oh no_. “And it’s a pretty fancy shindig.” _She wouldn’t_. “Which means that all it’s attendants have to be dressed accordingly-”

“ _Absolutely not_.”

“Oh why not.”

He glared at her where she was suspended in the air and curled his lip. “Because you know how much I bloody hate that crown.”

“Oooh, someone’s in a bad mood.”

“Ha ha, laugh at the King’s misery, why don’t you.” She sheathed her sword, snorting.

“I will, thanks. And I didn’t say the crown, buddy.” He brightened for the merest of moments, but that was quickly shattered when she added, her pearly whites far too cheeky for their own good, “At least, not _just_ the crown.”

“ _No_.”

“I want the crown,” she ticked off with her fingers, pretending to ignore but completely basking in his growing rage. “and I also want the cape, _and don’t you dare tell me there isn’t one_. Your mother told me that you have one and, from what she said, you look just _darling_ in it. The scepter, but you’ve got that already, and the procession.” He was fuming. She was glowing. “And I get one dance.” He growled. “Do you agree to these terms?”

“ _Never_.”

“Aw! What’s the matter! The _Almighty Bog King’s_ afraid of a little Fairy beating him!”

“I am not afraid,” he snarled. “I’m just…”

“ _What_? A coward.” _Oooh… that hit hard._ He swung at her once more with his staff and she spun backwards, her laughter bouncing off the trees, dripping down the bark like something hot and molten.

“Fine, _fairy_ , I’ll agree to your damned terms.” She stuck out her tongue, flipping down to shake his hand. He retracted his own and she tilted her head in wonder. “But, if you don’t _dazzle_ , if you fail to so much as make me smile, and if you cannot as you put it, _astound_ and _mesmerize_ then you’re coming to council with me.”

Marianne shrugged. “Okay, fine, I can-”

“Oh no,” Bog mocked, clucking his tongue. “These are very _formal_ events, Princess.”

It wasn’t hard to see the game he was playing and the fairy immediately sank lower. “Aw, _c’mon_ Bog, _seriously_?”

“I’d better see your pretty little crown and your most darling gown, _Princess_. And please, don’t hold back for little old me. Any color will do. Especially if you’ve got any pink. Maybe some baby’s breath blue around.” She blanched. He preened.

“ _There’s no way_ …”

“Then there’s no deal.”

There was a standoff. A brief one, to be fair, but a standoff nonetheless. The water from below them bubbled and gurgled. A few birds far above in the trees twitted to each other from across the expanse of trees. The wind rustled her hair before going to rattle the trees. She sighed, stuck out her hand.

“Deal.” He took her hand, so much larger, his claws scraping the inside of her wrist.

“Done. Now, about that spar…”

They were all smiles the rest of the day. But neither could ignore the tense moments, eyes flickering at each other, simply wondering if maybe astound and mesmerize weren’t exactly the best words and quickly, with small shudders, wondering about the condition of long lost royal attire and how quickly it could be mended… just in case.

And that was how a single conversation, of which he had very little recollection of exact wording and too much recollection on the threat behind it, began a long process of wondering the when’s, how’s, where’s and why’s.

The next few days every greeting began with a barb.

* * *

“Find anything astounding yet,” he teased her at the gate with a poke to her side. She wiggled away, swatting at him.

“Not yet.” She stated evenly.

* * *

The next day had been much the same.

“ _Still searching for the astounding_?” he hissed, staff clashing with her sword in fierce battle.

“Like I’m going to tell _you_.” she huffed, sweat rolling down her collar. 

* * *

And the day after that, and the day after that and the day after that, until the bet was near forgotten and the strange greeting was a thing of affection.

“Still searching for something astounding?” He grabbed her from the air and she fell into his arms with a yelp. She didn’t have much of a chance to rebuttal before his arms were winding around her, giving her one of the hugs she so sorely craved. And she fell into it.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“No calling it off, darling,” he chided into her neck. “S’not the Goblin way to forget things.”

“No, no, that’s not what I was saying.” She gave him a final squeeze before backing away. He let go with some reluctance, watching her kick out her feet in place, shyly glancing up at him from under generous lashes. “I’m thinking… I’m going to keep it a surprise. That’s okay, right? If I just kind of… surprise you with it.”

“Uh…” he fiddled with his staff, finally shrugging. “I mean… I suppose.”

She flushed with pleasure, wings helping her gain some height to pepper his lips. “Fantastic!” She beamed. “ _Fantastic_. Because I _found_ something.”

Well, he hadn’t expected that. 

In fact, after all the time passing he hadn’t expected much of anything. Perhaps a white flag of surrender. Though that in itself was foolish. Both of them would have rather died than have done that. 

“You _found_ something.” His tone must have mirrored his thoughts because she rose one eyebrow, smirking.

“Yeah,” a quick kiss. “I did.”

“O-oh did, you?” Being snarky was just so much more difficult when someone had stolen your breath. He cleared his throat. “Well… where is it?”

“Uh uh. Surprise, remember?”

“Then when-”

“Surprise.”

“And how-”

“ _Surprise_.”

“So it’s all going to be one big-”

“Surprise?” she nodded. “Yes. So be ready. At anytime. At all. Got it?”

“Uh… Okay… I suppose that’s fine…”

“Good.” He didn’t have much of a chance to ask any other questions before he was dragged through the gate into his forest, the promises of an adventure reeling from him lips and her hand warm on his.

And for a time it was forgotten.

Until it was finally time.

* * *

The night air was electric and the currents it passed through his carapace near sent his heart into a kind of shock that warmed him. The forest smelled of honey and lilacs and something else so subtle that he couldn’t trace it. But it did it’s part to soothe him. 

The moonlight above him was perfect, and the shadow it cast of him burned into the trees with all the height of a monarch and the proud stature of a lover.

And then she was there.

 _He_ was there and _she_ was there and the slates of moonlights bursting in through the trees made her look like a goddess. He took her in his arms and she batted those brown eyes up at him, gold and smooth under the light of new night.

He said something to her, perhaps it was to tell her she was beautiful -she was- or that he couldn’t imagine anything without her -he couldn’t- or, more likely, it was an admission of love -they hadn’t, yet, and it bothered him that he could never work up the courage to do so unless the dream world had him by it’s design- and she said something back.

And then they were kissing. And her clever little hands were everywhere and he was melting.

“Bog,” she said his name like honey on her lips. Sweet and resilient. He sighed against them, feeling her squared teeth bite gently down onto his lip. “Bog…”

“Mmmm…” said Bog. It was all he could really say, what with his spine currently acting as her personal nail file.

“ _Bog_ …” whispered Marianne again, and he stole another kiss to try and take his name from her breath. “You should…”

“Mmhmm,” agreed Bog, pressing into her neck, leaving hot kisses down the veins. “I’ll get to it, love,” he said back, quiet as a ghost. “Just you and me…” he promised. “Just you. _Only you_.”

“Bog.”

“ _Marianne_.”

“Bog, you lazy oaf.”

He stalled. Well… that wasn’t right. He was doing his best here, thank you very much, and in his own personal opinion he was being quite the romantic. Lazy oaf indeed? I think not.

“Marianne, I’ll have you know-” he began, ready to hold his own. She didn’t let him finish, which was disappointing. His speech would have brought tears to the eyes.

“Get up.” She pushed away from him, crossing her arms indignantly. “Get up, Bog,” she said again and she gestured with her hands. “Now.”

“I… I don’t… _can’t we just go back to the kissing thing_?”

“Now.”

And then he was no longer holding his love in his arms and there was no moonlight and he was feeling quite under-kissed as far as kissing went. Instead there was a wall of inky black, the smell of moss beneath him and the cool chirping of crickets outside of his windows. He sighed. Well… all good things, he supposed.

He was about to return to sleep, hopefully back to that dream if he was lucky, when someone poked him.

“Bog! Get up!” Then, “You lazy oaf!”

Oh good. So then at least it hadn’t been Dream him being lazy. Which meant that Dream Bog was quite the charmer and in no ways lazy when it came to the satisfaction of Dream Marianne. He blinked again, trying to find Awake Marianne’s face through the veil of sleep and the darkness that held his room tightly.

“Marianne… wha are you doin’ here, love?” he asked, searching her out. Or at least he tried to ask it. It came out more like a gurgle.

“Hey,” she chuckled. Leaning over she kissed him again and he leaned into it. _There she was_. Where sight eluded him, touch did not, and it did wonders in helping him navigate from his sleeping state. A flash of his dream whispered through his chest and he smiled against her lips until she pulled away too soon after. “Morning.”

“Is it?” He yawned. His voice, while not quite up to the task, was at least working again. “What time-”

“A little after four.” He blinked at her then. Well… at least some things were beginning to make sense. The cool air, still carrying night along with it for the ride, the chorus of nocturn in the forests heart, and the room was still dark, the sun not yet peeking through his shuttered windows. Not that much sun ever got through the forest anyway. It did it’s part to keep the atmosphere and maintain it’s image. But no matter what, at least there would have been light. Which meant that it truly was early. _Too early_. He frowned at her silhouette standing above him and thought, even though the pitch, that he could see her smile apologetically. “Sorry. But I had to come get you early.”

“You did?” It wasn’t so much of a question as it was griping.

“Yeah.” She kissed him again. Quick and final. “Now come on. Get up! Your wasting daylight and I have to show you something.”

“It’s _four_.”

“Brilliant observation. But I told you that, not the other way around. Now come o- _aah_! _Bog stop_!” She was doing her best to keep her voice down -there were others living in the castle besides him after all- but it became increasingly difficult when he grabbed her and pulled her down to the bed, clutching at her like some sort of stuffed doll being taken over by weeds and vines and other sorts of titchy things and not a very awake, very aware, very annoyed Fairy with a sword. “Bog, what are you doing!”

“Sleeping,” he murmured. “I was having a brilliant dream before you came here and I intend to return to it. Now go to bed.”

“I came here to get you. That’s why I’m here. We had a _deal_ remember?” _He’d rather not, thanks. Not at bloody four in the morning._ “Now come on.” He shut his eyes. “Up an’ atem.” He pretended to snore. “I’m not getting any younger he- _mph_!.” He covered her mouth with his hand. She glared. Then, in a fit of juvenile anger, she retaliated. His eyes popped open and he snatched his arm away with a wail.

“ _You licked me_!”

“You wouldn’t get up!” She crossed her arms. “Dire measures had to be taken.”

“Well I’m up now, aren’t I!”

“Good. My evil plan is working.” She gasped when he fought back, rubbing his generous jaw over her face, smirking when he heard her intake of breath turn into a near yelp. “ _Seriously_ , Bog! You’re so _goddamn scratchy_!”

“Yes, well,” he sniffed, giving her face an extra nuzzle with said scratchiness to which he received a well earned ‘yeep!’ for his efforts, “that’s what you get for waking me up so early before I can even shave.”

There was a pause, and for a moment he thought himself victorious until she added, with a hint of curiosity that he knew too well on the same level of persistence as a leech, “Y _ou shave!_ ”

He sighed. There really wasn’t going to be any more sleep for him, was there? “I was having a _brilliant_ dream,” he complained once more into her hair. “You were there.”

“Oh, was I now.”

“Yes. You were.” He sighed mournfully, and her hair bent under the gentle ministrations. “And now I’ll never know how it ends.”

“Well…” she felt him press her lips to his scratchy jaw, “perhaps later we can find out together. Sound good?”

She wasn’t implying that. He _knew_ she wasn’t implying that. But he was suddenly so grateful for the darkness around them, for had it not been smothering them so lovingly, she would have seen his face turn red enough to explode. 

“Uh… so…” he coughed. “Your bringing me to the surprise, are you?”

“Mmhmm…” Marianne rose to kneel beside him, hands pressing down on the shell of his chest. “I’m going to win, by the way.”

“It’s never good to go in this cocky, love,” he pushed her off to sit on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face wearily with the heels of his hands. “It makes for sore losers.” 

Her arms wound around him, her body weighing itself gloriously between his wings. “I wouldn’t be to sure about that.”

He smiled. “Let me shave?”

“Quickly.” She kissed the growing thorns. “And then it’s off to claim my prize. You _did_ get your robe fixed, didn’t you?” There was a yelp when he his wings buzzed out and threw her backwards onto the soft moss. “ _Are you kidding me, Bog!”_

His room was promptly filled with muffled laughter and the very distinct sound of moss being beaned at someone’s head.

* * *

It took him until they’d reached the entrance to the forest to wake up. In all honestly, it might have taken him longer, had Marianne’s energy not been at a startling high. But it was. Incredibly so. Too much for a simple stroll at four in the morning, that was for sure. And the more he took that into account -her enthusiasm, her smile, her sheer anxiety in the wait- the more he felt his own center begin to coil.

It was still dark by the time they reached the Primroses. He gave them an extra glare from where they stood, towering over the both of them with their aromatic petals basking in the glow of the still present moon, sparkling against particles in the air like a certain blue fairy whose name was not to be mentioned. She tugged him past.

“C’mon, Bog,” she rolled her eyes, caution in every spare syllable. “You stopped the cutting, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be destroyed…” he grumbled. She gave him a look, clouded under the little lights. “ _What_. You cannot truly blame me. _They’re_ the ones that cause trouble.”

“Yeah, well sometimes running strait into fate is exactly what causes all these issues in the first place.”

“This isn’t fate.” She stretched her wings and he followed suit, ready to take off over the tall grasses. “It’s flowers. There’s a difference.”

“Not for Primroses there isn’t.” She may have had a point. “Now come on. We’re headed up there, and I want to get there as soon as possible.” He looked to where she was pointing. Over the towers of the small town, just visible from the flickering lights and the glows of torches in the walkways, he could see the tall grove of trees settled in the center, doing their part to shelter what they could of a small useless patch of field.

He snorted. “You’re showing me a tree?”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing his hand and giving a tug. He stared down at it a moment, wondering if it was simply him imagining the shivers running through the fingers. “Come on…” then for good measure. “Idiot…” He chased her all the way, both of them hushing one another when their peals of laughter got too loud and doing nothing really to stop it at all.

They did eventually make it in one piece with the Castle and it’s Kingdom, for the most part, still sound in their beds, unaware of the Dark Forest visitor hovering nearby. Bog landed first, stuttering against the top of the tree and doing his best to catch his balance on the limbs. Trees were meant to be canopies, weren’t they? Not places to stand on top of. 

“Here,” she interrupted his thoughts, dragging him to the center. Apparently he’d misjudged her. She’d set up blankets. Planning had not gone beyond her and he suddenly was back into his own mind, wondering just how long she’d been up finding the perfect spot.

“Marianne…”

She swiveled on her heel quick enough to startle him, eyes wide. “Yes?”

“Oh… uh, nothing. Nothing, important. But… I mean… I was just wondering if-”

“I did my best here, Bog, don’t ruin this for me.”

“Yes, of course, but Marianne-”

“We’ve got at least two hours,” she cut him off, hands wringing. He squinted at her, doing his best to pick up on ever minute twitch. “I brought breakfast, if you’re hungry,” she babbled. _Babbling_. _That was one of hers._ “And… and also blankets. They aren’t really… you know… _Goblin_ moss… and that stuff is great.” She was worrying her lip on top of her fingers. “I did what I could,” she shrugged. Feigning a lack of care. 

“Marianne,” he tasted her name, drawing out a hand as if to catch her. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine! I’m… yeah, I’m fine.”

_Liar._

She was not fine. He knew what she was after a second glance, and for a blip of time it confused him to no end.

She was _nervous_. 

Wasn’t that usually _his_ thing.

I mean, they both got nervous. They were both stuttering fools when affection was involved. But this was something else. Nerves that were somehow familiar and so far off, and he wondered briefly where he’d seen them before.

* * *

_Let’s go stretch our wings…_

_Good idea! Good idea… yes… uh…_ yes

_Try thinking of this as an adventure…_

_Tucking a flower behind an ear, smiling when permission was given, when claws just scraped through hair and not a flinch was seen_.

* * *

Oh….

 _Oh Gods_ …

He was an _idiot_. Wasn’t he?

In all the competition, the betting, the thrum of excitement that came with wagers, he’d forgotten his own nerves. How terrifying it was to introduce someone to a new place, a new thing. Marianne may have become part of the Dark Forest, but this was her home. It ran through her blood. Sharing it with him was sharing something intimate and secret, and the fear that dislike was soon to occur was as good as saying he had no care for her.

His wings twitched irritably, and somewhere in the back of his mind he could almost hear a malevolent Tiny Voice doing its best to reach out and slap him.

“Marianne?”

“You keep on saying my name,” she gave him a shaky smile. “If I didn’t know any better, Bog, I’d think you were in l-” Her entire being paused when the Bog King of the Dark Forest stepped forward and enveloped her in a tight hug. She stood there, rooted to the spot, confused and excited and oh so appreciative. And after a beat her arms followed suit and she leaned into him, head falling with a dull noise against his chest. 

“Thank you for taking me here,” he muttered into her hair. “And if you’re worried… don’t be. I’ll love whatever you have to show me.”

“What makes you think I’m nervous?” Her chuckle shook. He snorted.

“Your face is a map.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Bad for you, good for me.”

“Bad then.” He laughed. 

“Sure. Bad.” Then, “We can call it off if you want. We could just see what you want to show me. That’s all. I promise I won’t make you wear a gown to council or anything. And you couldn’t lose. Not really. I can’t wait to see whatever it is.”

Her entire body seemed to deflate just the slightest after that, limps going slack and heart beating a steady tune in her ribs. “No. Can’t do that. It’s not the Goblin way.”

“Too true.”

“Besides, as long as you like it a _little_ I’m fine with it. I’ll still count that as a loss for me. Remember, I need to _astound_ and _mesmerize_.”

“You do indeed.“

“Besides, you’ve never seen me in a dress.”

“And you’ve never seen me in a cape.”

“Do you look as darling as your mother says?”

“ _Marianne!_ ”

After that everything became lighter. Her nerves, while still standing her on edge, were relaxed to a point where she could finally breathe. Not that she’d complain about that to him. But he could tell. And he was oddly proud that he could tell. 

They sat together on the blankets, both resting with one on their laps to ward away the last dregs of evening chill that clung like nettles to the breeze. She revealed, sometime after settling down, that she had brought a picnic basket filled with things she’d thought they’d both like and he’d teased her endlessly for her meager cooking skills and how much she cared about him to try that hard. 

That had turned into an all out shoving match which had had the two of them laughing hard enough their sides had near split. 

And after that, they had simply sat and waited. 

“What are we waiting for again?” He’d asked her at least five times in the span of the hour, and each time she replied with,

“Wait. It’s a surprise.”

So he went back to watching.

The Fairy Kingdom was quiet so early, smokestacks just beginning to rise against the sky, still blue as a raven’s feathers. A fog clutched to the ground, heavy and languid, slithering round houses and through windows, searching for prey, or perhaps just a place to finally sleep, it’s demeanor cruel and ancient. The floral smell was still heady and overpowering, but he was beginning to block it out. Or perhaps, just maybe -and he’d never say so, not in a million years- it wasn’t all that bad. 

The flowers that sat by him, tiny white things barely larger than one of his vicious claws, were simple. Their smell was faint, but present. Honey and straw and sap and fresh turned soil; something so distinctly sweet and flowery, but with confusing hints of forest that stuck to it with stubborn thorned fists. He tried to remember where he’d smelled them before and realized with some fondness that whenever he found his nose scraping against her neck or in her hair there were flashes of those tiny white lace. He plucked one out, bringing with it it’s kin, hanging tight by small green stalks, thin as spider’s silk. These were flowers meant to be crushed but somehow, as he twirled it between two fingers, that only incited a deeper need to protect.

It had been far too long since he’d wanted to protect anything. And he was finding lately more than ever that that instinct had been coming back full force.

She shuffled towards him, pressing their sides together and the warmth that spread off of her was delicious. 

“Still nothing, _Tough Girl_ ,” he whispered into the cool air.

“Just wait,” she told him. “Just wait.”

It would be another hour past that, and he was more than ready to tease her again, tell her that if watching the array of candles being lit in windows was her idea of mesmerizing then perhaps they needed another trip to the glow-worm caves. But she stopped him when, apparently, what she wanted to show him was there.

She squeezed his hand. “Look.”

He did. 

It wasn’t much of anything, really. The horizon, so dark against the flat fields, was beginning to lighten into a billowy blue, the tips of clouds shuddering in the changes and becoming mere shadows on the backdrop. 

“It’s the sun.” He stated clearly. “The suns coming up.”

“Mmhmm…” Marianne bobbed her head, and her hair hit his shoulder. “It is.”

“That’s what you’re showing me?” Another nod. “You do know I’ve seen the sun before, right? I’ve told you time and time again that we _do_ get sunlight in the forest.”

“But you’ve never seen a sunrise.”

“Does that matter?”

She glanced up at him, and in the fresh blueness beginning to steeple, her sharpened features became softer, skin velvet and eyes liquid ice. “Yes. It does, rather.”

He shrugged then, leaning back. “Right then. _Astound_ and _mesmerize_ me, Princess.”

“I will.” And not a moment later, Bog just starting to relax against the leaves below him, she grabbed his arm in a vice and shook him lightly. “Look!”

"I am, looking, Marianne. Nothing’s really changing. It’s just the…”

His words died in his throat when the approach of the sun was startlingly upon them, and for the first time in his life, the Bog King saw the birth of a land.

The sun broke through the sky. It smashed through the glass like a fairy through windows, cutting and suffering with writhing accuracy and quivering borders. And when it did, it bled. Pooling over with beautiful tragedy, it pressed against the sky with warlike accuracy and cut, slashed, lacerated with the viciousness of a predator and the silence of the surgical. The darkness shirked away, slithering out of sight, the stars bathing within it waiting for fate to take them with all the boldness of a Herculean lord.

And as the darkness burned, broke, brewed it began to breathe. It stopped struggling. Stopped moving. Began to ebb and swim, mix and suckle. Before long the first rays of once violent sunshine caressed the darkness and the two sang in their comfort. And the release of pain came forth in a palette of colors that Bog, sitting before it and watching with breath sinking back into shivering lungs, never thought were possible in a mortal veil.

Pinks and oranges and blues and violets, all charging towards the inky quiet, fingers clasped through the receding milky way, claws arching through the new clouds, spreading them into ragged strips while the pastels that followed cooled and soothed and puffed, brushing them over with a frost of lingering night. It was violent. It was calm. It was needy. It was destructive. It was-

Something touched his hand and he nearly jumped until her fingers, smaller than his and oh so different, wound around nobbled, scarred digits. He squeezed her hand, barely looking away, trying to memorize every color out before him. He heard the leaves beside him rustle as she moved closer, getting to her knees so she could bury her face into his neck. He felt her breath warm the skin there and wondered if the colors above him felt like that. “Pretty, right?”

He tried to speak, only managing to make a few strained rumbles in the back of his throat. He felt her chuckle, lips grazing the scales under his ear. He did his best to move, eyes still on the final strains of color still seeping out staining the heavens, and reached around her, pulling her close onto his lap, her hair tucked under his chin. Breathing her in he was reminded of the tiny white flowers still in his hand- fairy and goblin both together, now burned into her person by the light of the sun above them. Warmer and warmer, washing over, folding, wrapping, tying, smothering and breathing. He held her closer, as if he could follow example and warm her as much as the sun was doing for him.

“Still mad at me for waking you up?” she asked in a voice that told him he knew the answer. _Cheeky minx._

“No,” Bog rumbled, surprised by the softness of his voice.  “ _No_ ,” he breathed again. “ _It’s beautiful_.”

“Yeah,” she looked up at him, and her fingers lightly traced the rough edges of his shoulder plates, creating devilish shadows on the leaves behind them, “it is.” He wondered what she was talking about and had to keep down the sharp flutters when he realized the answer.

 _Yes,_ he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, lingering, _it really, truly was_.

* * *

Sunshine finally chased away the fog and before long the color had gone with it. They sat together for a few minutes after the final few stars had grumbled away like wise sages in need of a nap. The sky was blue enough to be glass, and from where they stood, so close, he briefly fantasized reaching up and breaking it to helpless pieces and taking one with him. 

Marianne slid off his lap then, and he reluctantly let go with few complaints. She crawled across the treetop and grabbed the blanket, bundling it. “I told you you’d like it,” she told him over her shoulder.

“Yes, yes, ye were right for once.”

“For once?” Marianne glanced over with a knowing smirk.

“Twice?” She threw the blanket at him and he dodged it, a smile splitting his face.

“You’re awful.” Hands on her hips she tilted her chin proudly up. “So?”

“So what?”

“Are you going to admit it, or am I going to have to force it out of you?” She shook one of her tiny fists.

“Oh please. As if this was up to my standards,” but his smile said otherwise, and she knew it.

“What? Mr. _It’s Beautiful_ suddenly can’t admit he was smitten!”

Bog groaned, heaving one arm dramatically over his brow. “Fine! It was glorious.”

“And….”

“And the… and the Light Fields are just as good.” She smiled triumphantly and he scowled. 

“Did they _astound_ and _mesmerize_?”

He tapped his chin. “… I haven’t quite decided yet.”

“ _What_!” She twisted in an instant, glaring up at him. “Oh come on! This was awesome! I won this thing!”

“I still get time to decide, _Princess_.”

“Well, don’t think too hard, _Almighty Bog King_. You might strain something.”

“Oh hah hah.”

Marianne flashed her teeth at him before clapping her hands together, rubbing the palms in sadistic delight. “Right, well then, we’ve got the rest of the day. What are you thinking.” She crossed her arms. “Quick spar back at the forest?” The sword at her hip got a loving pat, features quirking in challenge. “And then we’ll go look for your cape.”

“Oh but, Marianne, your dress most likely needs _so_ much more attention!” She snorted, batting at him and he laughed, jumping back, hands raised.

“You know you’re just asking for it.”

“Naturally, Tough Girl.” He turned to retrieve his staff, still lying against the tree top. 

She rolled her eyes and spread out her wings, the sun still behind her, now on a steady climb up into the blue. “Fine. Come on then. Let’s go. There’s nothing else here anyway and I want to get you back before your mother thinks we got married in some super hush-hush black market deal.” He turned, ready to say something brilliantly snappy and stopped.

The first time he’d seen her wings, really seen them, had been through moonlight. The soft lighting had caught the thin paper between veins and cast a familiar pink glow across his face and he remembered wondering how something so dainty, so delicate, so worthy of art could be used to destroy.

Through the sunlight…

Her wings didn’t glow. They screamed. Millions of different shades of colors -blues, purples, pinks, some that had no name, no place. They cast themselves against his scales, brushing, burning, and soothing. And for a moment he had to remind himself how to breathe past questions of _why in the world she was with him._

Marianne was the sun. She was meant to chase him away with beauty and light and warmth, exploding the darkness and banishing the stars. 

She gave them a few light shudders, warming them in the light and looking plum pleased as she ever could be. A sigh trickled out when she turned at all angles, catching warmth, storing it away.

“Marianne?” Her name was all he could think of saying. 

If she was going to say something, it was cut off when the Bog King leaned down and kissed her. Lightly, just a touch, but enough to feel her freeze under the brush. Her wings shielded them both from the blinding light, instead taking it and twisting it until it covered the Goblin and the Fairy in something otherworldly and ethereal. 

“You win,“ he spoke against her lips. “I am _astounded_ and _mesmerized_.” 

He heard her catch her breath before muttering, “You liked the sunrise that much, huh?”

“Something like that.” The flower still in his fingers went behind her ear. He moved back, adjusting it against the brown locks. 

“Let’s go find your cape.”

“Let’s.”

With the sun on their backs they dove happily back into the shade of the forest. It wouldn’t be too long before they were back in the Light Fields. Perhaps they weren’t as dull and boring as he had first thought.

Or… at least one part of them wasn’t. 


	6. The Robb’d that Smiles: In Which Marianne is Hungry, a Fairy Steals from a Goblin and Everyone Wins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The robb’d that smiles, steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.” 
> 
> Othello

The Bog King of the Dark Forest awoke from his own mind when the fighting move of an oncoming war was made by the enemy. His eyes snapped up, senses on high. They were close…

… so very close.

And they would not get past the border. Not this time.

The papers in his hands slapped to the table with a resounding _phwp_ before claws shot out across the space, successfully trapping the daemon beneath a cage of nail and bone.

The war was avoided.

A King had won once again.

“ _What the hell, Bog! I just wanted a freaking berry!_ ”

“No. They’re mine.” He grabbed the plate she’d been sliding towards her and drew it back to him out of her reach. “If you wish to eat, Princess, then go and find food. The kitchens are more than open territory.”

“But I don’t want to eat. I want _a berry_. A single _berry_. It’s _pointless_ to even go that far for something. Now can you just-“

He moved it farther away. She glared. He smirked. Then, just to drive the sword in deeper, he plucked one darkened, tart globe from the platter. “ _Bog_.” He decided to twist the sword. No matter how cruel, some enemies only learned through the act of suffering. He popped the fruit into his mouth and bit down fangs with a wild display of dominance.

“Mmm…” he hummed.

“You suck.”

“I sense hostility, Tough Girl. Could your hunger pangs finally be doing you in?”

“Oh go to hell.”

He barked a laugh, grabbing another berry, biting it in half. “You’re a picture of elegance, truly. Go get your own.”

“I don’t _want_ my own. I want _yours_.”

“Well, you can’t have mine.” He shuffled his papers together, going back to scanning the first few lines that he’d left behind. “They’re the same as everything else.”

“No. They aren’t.” She grabbed her own pile of papers, huffing quietly with each flip of parchment. “And last time I checked, _you_ begged for _my_ assistance going through _your_ workload. And I, being the darling light of your life, _agreed_.”

Bog snorted, grabbing another piece of fruit with a lofty cluck of his tongue. “I don’t quite recall begging, _Oh Darling Light of My Life_. I believe that I _mentioned_ my schedule to you yesterday during a sparring session-“

“ _Which I won_.”

“And you volunteered your time. I simply agreed to the help. Which was most appreciated, believe me, up until just a few moments ago.”

“In what way has it been diminished!”

He looked up, his brow hooded. “You’re joking, right?” She cocked her head. “ _You_ tried to steal my food!”

“I didn’t try to _steal_ anything. I tried to _take_ it. Last time I checked, one part of being in a healthy and stable relationship is giving me at least _half_ of the snacks. It’s basically _law_.”

“When have you _ever_ known me to simply _give up things_ without a fight.” He gave the papers a light shake, relaxing back into his work. “I didn’t do it with your sister, and I’m not going to do it now. So get back to work, and if you truly are wasting away over there might I suggest you go and, _oh_ , _I don’t know_ , learn to hunt or something. It’s about time you did that anyway.”

“Fairies don’t hunt.” Marianne flatly shot back through starched lips. “We _gather_.”

“Lot of good that’s doing you- _ow_!” She smirked, her boot quickly moving from where it had jutted out and successfully beaned his knee, avoiding being hit back with a clawed foot. “Those are fighting terms you’re standing on, _Tough Girl_.”

She snorted. “Oh please, you’d _know_ if I was fighting. That was merely the punishment to a crime well deserved.” Ruefully she shook her fist. “And there’s more where that came from.”

“You really are quite the diplomat.”

“I try.” She moved to take a piece of fruit. He slapped at her hand. “Ow!”

“Punishment fitting the crime.”

“Jerk!”

“The pot’s calling the kettle black.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Gladly. Now do us a favor, love, and finish those papers. I’d rather be done with them _before_ all the Kingdom rots to pieces and then _how will you ever_ get your fruit then.” He stifled a chuckle through her glare, turning back.

For a moment there was silence, and he was just beginning to lose himself in the thrum of papers twitching against rough hands when-

“You know… I bet I could still steal a berry.”

Bog looked up, twitching a brow to the sky. “Oh _really_.”

“Yup.”

“And how on earth would you ever achieve that.”

“Because, Almighty Bog King, I _always_ find a way around the problem.” Her fingers tapped readily against the table, and his eyes twitched towards them, watching their movement for potential thieving attacks. “You see, your problem is that you seem to forget that I _fought_ for my sister, and I _won_.”

“It was a draw, last I remember.”

“Nuh uh. It was a draw after the _spar_. But I won the entire game _after_ the spar.” She pursed her lips. “Though, really, by the way I’m thinking about it you kind of won too. So we both won.” She shrugged. “Still, I’m the only one who remembers the tactic. So…”

“So _what_?”

“So, all I’m saying is that if I really wanted to I could still get what I wanted and more.” She sat back, grabbing her stack of documents with a casual shrug. “I’m just not doing it. So consider yourself lucky.”

Bog stared at her from across the table, huge brown eyes moving from line to line without care. He squinted. “You’re bluffing.” She shrugged again, giving an infuriatingly easy hum. “You’re bluffing!”

“No. I’m not. Now get back to work.”

“Oh screw the work!” He pointed at her from a devilishly lit face, features going sharp and ridged once more under the ministrations of shadows. _“You’re bluffing_!”

Marianne smirked, glancing over the array of scrawl clutched in long fingers, blinking innocently across the length of space. Fangs glinted at her under the dim light, scales screwed up to resemble a Bog King of snarling nostalgia. And she couldn’t help it. She nearly fell forward against the table, her laughter moving out in long, joyous peals. “Oh _gods_ Bog you’re such a _dork_!”

“I am not!”

“ _Yeah! You are!_ ” She wiped at her eyes, trills and chirps still pushing their way from lungs abused with the happy vibrations of her guffaws. “Oh _gods_ … I swear, your _face_! You just can’t let this go, can you! That I could beat you!”

He opened his mouth to retort before the full meaning of her statement hit him hard. His jaw went slack before snapping shut, and he was left moping, arms crossed across a scaled chest. “You’re _awful_.”

“And you’re a _villain_ to the end it would seem.”

“Yes, well, right now you’re worse.” She laughed again. “And you couldn’t beat me!”

“ _Yes_ sweetheart, I really could. Now get back to-“

“No! No, I’m not going back to the blasted papers until you prove it.”

Her entire form snapped into the defensive in a moments notice, and he recognized the spark in her eye with the fluency of a language he’d learned far too quickly to comprehend. “Alright.” She nodded. “Fine! I will!”

“Fine,” he sneered. “If you’re so _sure_ that you could actually beat me at something so trivial-“

“And I can.”

“Then do your best _Fairy_.”

“Fine _Goblin_ , I will.”

And for a stretch of time the two of them stared at one another. The platter of fruit by his elbow, his nails began to click their way against sheen wood, her own eyes flitting towards it with a purpose. Something fluttered in the pool of gold, too quickly to catch, and he wondered about it briefly, doing his best to decipher - _what was she playing at?_ \- when she lunged forward.

He did the same, throwing his body up with a boisterous _haha_! before curling round the object of their dispute. She fell forward, hand narrowly avoiding slapping his face while his own, claws retreating in so as not to hurt her, trapped her arm against the table with a _thunk._

“Got you.”

“Uh huh.” She smirked, wiggling under his grip. “You sure did.”

He frowned, then shrugged, lifting enough to grab the largest berry he could, holding it between to deadly talons in front of her face. “Better luck next time.” And then he threw it into his mouth with a leer.

And then she was on him before he could even remove her from his grip, throwing her arm round his neck and pulling him flush against her. Papers scattered this way and that, her knees scraping across the surface as she scrambled atop the table to better face him, still sitting stunned on the bench, and let her hands fall round his face. And then she was everywhere. Her fingers against his spine sending tiny jolts and sparks across his wings, her lashes fluttering his cheek and her lips, soft, pure, all over his with a capturing force that nearly sent his eyes rolling back.

His nails dug into the wood around him just as hers, dull but oh so clever, moved quickly, cradling the back of his head, ticking along the shift in uneven terrain in scales, dragging sensuous trails across ever inch that she could find. And then her tongue flickered out, teasing against his lips, and everything became _more_. He gasped along with her, breaths feeding one another air through the sudden need of the lack of any of it, and every taste around him was sunshine and honey. Her teeth sunk into his lip, nibbling and cruel and he moaned into it. His arms finally – _finally_ \- gained enough sense to move from where they’d been stagnate against the table. Nails, drawing out from the wood beneath them, no doubt leaving scars that his mother would kill him for later, he wound them round her, pulling her as close as he could, needing to feel every vicious tremble of her body through clothes and armor, tilting his head up to find purchase against her frantic pursuits, taller than him for once in her place on the table.

She giggled, breathy and warm, a victorious sort of sound that vibrated through him like a purr, fingers moving to stroke across his ear until he choked into their struggle. She gave one last movement in their battle for skin, tongue stroking across his, before she sat back and he fell against the bench and the two of them sat panting in the low light.

“Ugh…” said Bog with all the articulation of an ice sculpture sunbathing. “Uhhh….”

“Uh huh…” she throatily agreed, slumping down, catching her breath.

“Tha… tha’ was a just… reward for… for _work_ … _Tough Girl_ …” he huffed, the pink in his ears tingling happily, heat trilling through his face and neck. He tilted his neck up once more, his blue eyes huge, enamored, doing his best to control a head suddenly much to heavy for his body. “Tha-thank ye…”

And then Marianne smiled.

She _smiled_.

And there was something so very wrong about that smile. His face fell. “Wha’?”

Leaning forward, Marianne opened her mouth.

Between her teeth lay a very much whole berry. 

“I win.” She said, before popping the skin with her teeth, tongue flicking out to swipe the spare juice from her swolen lips. “So there.” And with a few more chews she grabbed the plate and retreated with a few jaunty hums back to her side of the table, stooping to scoop up papers before continuing her work, doing her part to ignore the shocked Goblin sitting across from her, jaw to the floor, eyes bulging and masterfully managing to make a few spare grasping choking sounds while he was at it. When she chuckled down at the parchment he officially lost it.

Bog’s roar of defeat was fabled to be heard from miles round that day. Marianne would never speak of the brave tale of war. Though the Kitchen staff was very much confused when, after that fateful day, their King told them to limit the supply of berries because, as they did their best to understand through a few mumbled snarls, apparently the tactical methods of devouring were far more enjoyable and you simply couldn’t do that with an ever present supply.

And so it was from that day on.


	7. 365: In Which Counting is Celebrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively Titled: Humanity in a Handbag Actually Writes Something Under 5000 Words For Fucking Once

“For an evil Goblin, you’re kind of soft.”

“Shh…”

“I take it back, you’re  _disgustingly_  sweet.”

“ _Hush_.”

“Rotten fruit and sugar sweet.”

“Oh will you  _please_  be quiet!”

Marianne huffed, doing her best to back away but was quickly captured and pulled to him again, his chin going to scrape her face, brows low. “What are you doing anyway?” She squirmed when his lips fell on her temple before moving to her eyelid. She fluttered her lashes, snorting when he jerked away before returning with a grumble and a quip of  _stop that_.

“I’m counting.”

“Counting  _what_?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Sorry, no.” She tried to pull away again, but he was faster, hands winding through her hair. “You pretty much just grabbed me when I walked in. We were supposed to  _spar_ today, remember? And this-” she nearly sneezed when a particularly ticklish kiss fell on her nose. “-is not sparring.”

“Brilliant observation.” He kissed her collarbone, humming out a word before moving the the bottom of her chin, every tiny affection followed by an even more hushed translation. “This is  _not_  sparring. We’ll do that once I’m finished.” He pulled back for a moment, far enough for her to see him, but not quite that their noses didn’t scrape. “And I won’t be done for  _some time_. So you’d best make yourself comfortable, Tough Girl.” And then he leaned in and dropped another kiss on her ear. 

“Yes but…” she growled when he tapped the back of her head, signaling for her to turn so he could reach the other side, “…what are you  _doing_.”

“I’m kissing you.”

“You’ve been kissing me for more than  _five minutes_.” 

“Seven, actually.”

“How do you-  _never mind_. Seven minutes then.” 

“Well… eight now. You wasted time complaining.”

“ _Bog!”_ Her response was a kiss to the brow. “Fine. Whatever.  _Eight_  minutes. But…  _why_.”

“Easy.” She felt his shoulders brush her skin when he went to press another kiss between her eyes and down the bridge of her nose. “It’s our anniversary. One year today, love.”

“It’s our…  _oh Gods_! Oh  _Gods, Bog!_ I forgot!” She stalled. “Wait… aren’t  _you_ the one who’s supposed to forget this stuff? I mean isn’t that… expected.”

“I don’t really know,” he murmured before a fresh batch of pepperings across the slope of her shoulder. “But it’s fine, Marianne, really.”

“No. It isn’t. I didn’t even  _think_. It was so  _stupid_!”

“No, it wasn’t!” He stopped kissing enough to look up at her, blue eyes flashing. “It’s just new. We’re both learning. I just happen to be better at dates than you.”

“Curse those calendars. My only weakness.” He chuckled, and then resumed his happy job of covering her arm with tiny bites. “I am sorry though, Bog.”

“ _Shhh_. Busy.”

“I’m serious! What can I do to make it up to you!”

“As am  _I_. You can stop talking, for one. I’m concentrating.”

She groaned, casting him a heavy glare before rolling her eyes. “What  _are_ you doing, anyway? You never told me.”

“Fine. If you simply  _must_  continue your endless breaking of my concentration…” He gave the inside of her wrist some perfect attention and she held down a gasp. “It’s been one year since we’ve been together. So, I’ve decided to say thank you.”

“ _Thank you_?”

“One kiss. For every day. Now will you please keep your voice down. I’m only at one hundred and eleven and you’re making it  _increasingly_  difficult to keep track. It’s already been more than ten minutes. If you’d like me to start over then please, by all means, we can stay here all day. But until then…” She gaped at him and he smirked through a nod. “Good. Now, if you’ll please allow me-  _ah_!”

She’d tugged his head up and he’d nearly lost balance, long limbs twisting together in a ridiculous sailors knot. “You are more romantic then you like to claim,  _Bog King.”_ Her breath fluttered and he swallowed.

“ _Uh_ …”

She leaned closer, his sudden lack of speech an invitation. “It’s okay. So am I.” And she closed the space between them, only stopped when Bog ducked his head just enough for her to pause.

“…  _Not yet, Marianne…_ ” his hands moved up to steady himself, landing against the back of her shoulders, sliding up the bare skin there until they fell right above her wings, fabric of her shirt catching under claws. “…  _I was saving the lips for last_ …”

Marianne just shook her head, laughter pearling out in harmony. “You’re a _sap_ , you know that?”

“… am not…” he whispered. She laughed again.

“Well, since I forgot, and since you seem to be adamant on finishing this and also rejecting every claim of your overall  _dreaminess_ ,” he scoffed low in his throat, “then perhaps I can start over.”

“But…  _sparring_.”

“ _Shhh_ …” and her lips fell against his jaw, his shudder rippling through the room. “ _I’m counting._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for all who didn’t know this one already, it’s based on the picture by the fabulous artbymaureen (the link is below)! 
> 
> http://artbymaureen.tumblr.com/post/118119089346/im-sorry-ive-been-drawing-waaay-too-much
> 
> So, while I’m still busy typing away stories where Bog almost kills Marianne that are tearing me to fucking shreds, I thought I’d deliver something that doesn’t make everyone around me a sopping mess of angry tears!


	8. The Repetition of Mirrors: In Which a Reflection is Consulted, a Person is Remembered and a Name is Practiced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a repetition needed in the past to create a ruler of all in the future. But mirrors are just that- reflections. And often times a new person has evolved and only looks back at themselves. 
> 
> Dedicated to the wonderful and talented Suzie-Guru who has been cheering me on endlessly, and who has been partaking in a ‘let’s see who can hurt the other person more with feels’ battle with me. Which has been a torturous treat, let me tell you. 
> 
> To find her works (and they are many and fantastic) I will supply the link. Go read them. Now. 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie

He practiced in the mirror.  _Constantly_.

“I am the _Bog King_.”

It was so much easier now that there was a mirror to practice to. There used to never be, his own face a catalyst for too many memories, boiling hot, melting sand into glass. But Marianne had insisted.

“I live here, too,” she’d pointed out, watching his face in the reflective surface glowering at her from where he sat, pouting on the side of the bed. “And I need something to look into when I put on makeup.”

It was a clever lie, they both knew, and through the green tint of doubles their eyes met for the barest of moments.  _I want you to be able to know you’re worth your own face_ , her expression had read. _You’re beautiful and wonderful and I need you to know that._

He still had a problem with the mirror. He was just less vocal about it.

Now he stood in front of the mirror, chanting the familiar line over and over, changing tone, deepening muscles, shifting teeth over the other, watching scales tick and rustle, fangs puzzling together into a sharp line.

“Hello,” he began, steeling his eyes under a brow hooded in shadows. “ _I_ am the  _Bog King_.”

Marianne had found him once, snorting under her breath. And when he’d moved to snarl at her one lifted brow had him checking himself, apologies short and clipped. “It sounds so  _formal_.” Her nose wrinkled, winding her arms around his torso, turning to look at them both in the mirror, Fairy and Goblin, night and day. Different. “Why not just… be  _yourself_?”

“Myself is formal.” He stood straighter. She didn’t let go. “And this isn’t about being myself. This is about those cretins knowing their place. This meeting-“

“Will go fine. Nothing’s gonna happen, you idiot.” He snorted. She gave him a squeeze. “I know you’re nervous-“

“I’m not nervous-“

“But there’s no reason to be.” She ignored him, going to pull away, but he stopped her with his own arms, claws going to sit atop her shoulders. She sighed into it, trailing fingers down his spine, smiling as his posture finally loosened. “You’ll be fine. Okay? And they’ll love you-“

“They don’t have to like me,” he growled stiffly. “A King’s job is not to be _liked_. You know that as well as I.” Slowly she gave a nod. He stooped, resting his chin on her hair. “It’s about respect, love. Nothing else.”

That time she did pull away, palms pushing against the overlapping scales of his stomach to stare up at him, and he stared back dejected. “Just… just be yourself, okay, Bog?”

“You’ve never given me that advice before,  _Princess_ ” he groused and she shot him back an equally annoyed look.

“I’ve never had to,  _Cockroach_.”

As soon as she left he turned back to the mirror, adjusting to stand even taller, fists at his side, staff held in his mighty grip, he raised his chin as high as he could manage and tested out a sneer.

“Welcome,” he tried again, rolling the word off his tongue to detect any sweetness and weed out what could be changed. “ _I_ am the  _Bog King_.”

His reflection sneered back, a monster, hideous, terrifying, cruel, and he felt hopelessly lost in a skin that was seeming further and further from being his own.

His mother had assured Marianne many a time while he stood fuming nearby, going on and on about how whenever his Father got nervous he’d practice being the menacing King everyone knew him to be. 

“You’ll see,” Griselda looked over at him, smirk drawing tight over her wide face, beady eyes sparking. “He’s just a  _softy_  under all that armor.”

“Mother, please-”

“Fine! Practice your stupid little game! But just watch,” and she waggled her finger at the both of them, already turning on her heel, “when the time comes it ain’t gonna do nothin’ for ‘im. These folks are gonna show up and he’s gonna be shakin’ like a chipmunk in a log.”

“ _Mother!”_

But practice he did. He tried again and again until his throat was sore from hollowing out parts of himself, names scattered across the floor like bitter hooks and dead leaves, crushed and wilted and used up and destroyed and _remade_. He had to practice, had to be perfect, because that was always how it was. It had always been harsh and it had always been cruel and it had always been…

His own Father had demanded respect from everyone, and he received it without so much as a second glance. The Forest bent to his will like grass in a storm, swaying and breaking. Bones, split down the middle only to be bound and healed wrong. Or maybe just right. The perfect shape to be submissive under claws of iron and blood.

His Father had practiced his introductions. Had done so until they were perfect. Their home, if it could even be called a home, had always been tainted with sounds of his name, embedded into the rotting wood and his own body began to shrivel away with it. And Bog had watched it. Seen every telling of his name break away another part of him and become its own. Tall and lean and strong, his name had stuck inside of every part of everything he passed with daggers of steel and had been lost from him forever.

Because names were life. And if you were to give away your own, it needed to be the one you wished to lose. You only had one name, Bog remembered being lectured in the darkness of a thicket, watching prey. And nothing more. Any more than one name and you’ve lost yourself.

“Yee’re name is important,” he’d once told Bog in a rare moment of advice, growl low and stately and dark. “Ye tell them yer name so they fear it. F’rever. D’ye understand.”

“I do, sire,” Bog had nodded, shifting into a bow.

He’d only called his Father by his title. And he’d only respected him. Feared him and respected him, as it should have been. The way of the Land was not to think little of Father’s, for they stood taller than the oaks and could chase down weeds just as fast as they grew. It left little room for love, but there was no room for love in a body plagued with thorns and a title being spelled out over time to be passed along and worn with the same bared teeth. The brighter emotions suffocated beneath the ashes and the soot of this growth and the flames would only continue to be fed as a body expanded to make room for them.

The most important meeting of his Father’s life had come in mid Spring.

A procession of Fairies lead by the still lean ruler. Their wings shivering and quaking, they ducked their way under the foliage and scuttled from the snapping jaws of flytraps. The skull entrance had nearly stopped them as teeth glinted under light that was given so freely over Primroses, but here was shocked into strings of parted wool, feather light and abused.

They’d been met when the glittering of the amber staff had drawn their attention and the words, snarled, bellowing, practiced, rang across of throat of ivory.

“ _I_  am the  _Bog King_ ,” Bog said again into the mirror, doing his best to follow behind.

The meeting had officially closed off borders. Hatred of Fairies great there had been no consideration. No trade. No alliance. No passing where the pink petals burned into the ground.

He’d known how the meeting would end as soon as he began to practice in the mirror.

And now Bog practiced. “ _Greetings_.  _I_  am the _Bog King_.”

So unlike his Father and not sure what that meant. Perhaps it was pride that he’d broken away, was nothing like him, changed things for the better. Or maybe fear- he’d never be like him. He’d changed things. A problem reflected in opposition on either side of a looking glass.

He wasn’t his Father. He didn’t know how this meeting was to end. But still he practiced. Different, wrong, grown and the walls of his castle still echoing with practiced names, he began his own. Trying to be who he was meant to. His mother always did say he looked like him. Resembled him in every sense. And he could see it. He  _could_.

“ _I_  am the  _Bog King_.”

And he was feared. His name rang true and far and wide and was both myth and reality through shrouded veils of mist and promises. Just like his Father his reputation was an echo. And he was who he was meant to be. And he was happy with that…

He was…

But she had been right. He was nervous. He was afraid. And he couldn’t be, because he never was, and he was the mirror of someone who had left for other worlds, leaving behind orders and practice and a staff glinting with a tiger’s eye and nothing else. Just a son who he’d told would be just like him, and a  _memory_  and a  _hope_  and a  _wish_  that he one day would.

Even when those same  _memories_  and  _hopes_  and  _wishes_  hoped he never would be.

His Father had prepared him for this moment. Or… more likely never did. But he’d prepared him for a fateful day sure to come, and eventually something had to happen. The former King’s meeting had closed a border, and when the current’s time came he’d already worn down his sanity with repetition bouncing off the millions of memorized grooves staring back at him against a wall.

Fear that he wouldn’t be able to execute the same fear in the hearts of those who were to arrive. Or perhaps fear that he would. But respect was needed and respect could only come from practice and repetition. And on that day he’d tried to continue, as his Father had, but his throat was too dry and his chest was clenching and his claws had already drawn tallies down the wood of his bedchamber to release the shuddering latches anxiously buzzing into springing open. And it was not a time for panic. It  _wasn’t._  But it wasn’t a time for him to not be his Father, for things had to be reflected and changes had to be made and fear and respect and mirrors were all things to be practiced and remembered.

And there were people flooding through his door and Marianne was screaming at all of them and at him and he steeled his will to prepare for the battle of change that needed to be fought. Prepared to face the Elders as they stormed to his throne, absent and without it’s King. At least not the one that they desired. The one that was the original at the other side of time. 

Their demands were large and their confusion and anger was deafening. As deafening as the screams of the Fairy, hating them evermore, vocals beating through like swords through stained glass.

And he knew his Father would have talked with them. His Father would have faced them, as he would every person that day. His Father would have agreed and then repeated back what needed to be said to create a place between them as equal as an agreement and a threat. 

_I am the Bog King._

Maybe it was then that he began to let his Father slip, excusing himself with growls and snarls, making his way to the goal he’d set in his mind.

And he’d been with her for hours and they waited together and it had seemed as if forever would be reached before the arrival and he worried that maybe they wouldn’t show, or perhaps something had happened or maybe, just maybe, there had never been a chance in the first place.

And Marianne had told him, without sparing any words, that if he was to keep thinking out loud like that she would duel him right then and there. And he went silent.

And she’d been right. There had been no reason to worry. And the moment approached. _I am the Bog King_ , he rehearsed one last time in his mind, nodding to the beat of each syllable, fangs flashing in preparation of the greeting he’d been waiting for, practiced, dictated, watched back to him in a mirror of another person he’d been ready to become because it was simply the way and a choice and an option and a desire and a fear, and then…

… and then Marianne passed him his victim, pushing them into his arms with gentle instruction.

And preparation had never been enough, and he found himself silently without direction and not sure if  _lost_  was even the correct word to use.

She was  _tiny_.

 _Tiny_  and  _delicate._

And not the creature he had been expecting.

He stared down at her, stunned beyond remembering. Something was buzzing deep in his mind screaming to be acknowledged. But even that was being drowned out, sinking father and farther away as amorphous beams never found in stained windows filtered in colors that wound through his breath and stole it away. 

His thumb scraped against her cheek, twice the size of her head, watching as a mouth pulled open and closed in silent yawns and exclamations, legs and arms wiggling under the bindings of petals; primroses, he noticed, and Marianne had sniggered tiredly at her own attempt at humor. The child let out a sound, a pathetic coughing sort of hiccup, reaching arms up through the skies with weak shakes of experimenting limbs. The palm of his hand caught onto the first signs of scales and edges, a filigree against the odd tinting of her skin, one to match his own with the perfection and beauty he’d never seen in Marianne’s own vanity, hanging loosely by the bed.

 _You’re beautiful_ , she’d told him so many times, meaning it every one of them with a lie that he had yet to find.

And maybe he still had to find it. And maybe he’d never stop.

But how could something that looked like him be without the apology of appearance. Be perfect and  _beautiful_  and  _wonderful_  and  _new_  without the constant ephemeral glare of memories against layered glass while holding all of the crystalline of one. And how could he be so without words…

But he had practiced.

He had  _practiced_.

 _Endlessly_ , he had  _practiced_  for this moment. Had prepared himself for when he’d tell this child what he’d been told. That he had one name, for it was one name that he’d give and one name that he’d keep and there was no other. And he was to be feared. To be respected. To be known.

_I am the Bog King._

Like the one before him he was meant to destroy himself with repetition and practice. And then to destroy them into something better than themselves. To make them strong. To continue a cycle that broke and created new mirrors.

Something touched him, and he woke from his separation when claws the size of a wisp found his hand, wrapping the whole of a soft fist as far round the rough skin of one finger as it could, barely able to even cover half of his larger digit, but trying all the same. And there was a terrible comparison in the connection. Another like him in a place where  _like him_  was not something to be. But not so terrible at all. Something of a million different chances and predictions all falling away. Slipping out of sight once she held on with trust. Holding.

_Holding._

And the snap of something deeper than he’d ever felt shattered, reaching corners of a vessel he’d thought already filled to the brim, spilling over with adoration that had no name and no place, but so sudden it was an attack and a curse and a dream and an impossibility and…

And letters and construction and echoes and memories fell from his mind in showers of sprinkling glass, sparks everywhere shooting off of rust from long ago hurts that never disappeared, but who’s stitches were rewiring to create notes and shapes against scars deep enough to hold stories. His brow fell against the smaller one, smooth and little, nose scratching an arc by her ear. 

Her other hand, still free, went to pat uselessly at his face with clumsy and curious movements, catching tears. Eyes opened, languid and tired and confused, and blue peeked at him, irritated by this invasion of space and demanding of attention that it wasn’t being given. But no fear. 

His appearance - _too hideous… too hideous to love_ - did nothing to keep her from doing just that. 

He couldn’t stop the laugh, sounding a great deal more wet than he expected it and carrying a tune of furious love singing through the destruction of a border, pressing lips to rounded cheeks and curled fists. The newcomer seemed to object to that as well, squirming under the affections with heavy set anger brewing on her face and he had to chuckle, pressing one last kiss to her fingers. She swatted at his nose.

“ _Look at that_ ,” he heard Marianne say over his shoulder, and he didn’t give a second thought to the choke behind her voice. “She looks like you.”

“ _She looks layke oos…_ ” he whispered back thickly, drawing back to tuck her closer to him, little breaths ghosting over his chest, chasing his heartbeat in melodic rhapsody against his ribs. Another drop fell on her nose, and the baby sneezed, glaring up at him and Bog had to hold back another terrible peal of laughter carrying so much more than that alone. 

But forgiveness came quick enough and she brought his still captured finger closer, holding it against her tiny body with the force of a kidnapper needing comfort. He brushed across her head again, terrified and awestruck and enraptured by how the whole of her tiny body could fit into one of his hands, and this was something that had to be protected and kept and watched and…

…and he wondered if Marianne could see he was crying. If she did she hadn’t said anything.

Only, “ _she looks like us_ ,” with the wonder of an agreement, her own fingers winding round his arm, looking down at a creation that could not come from petals and a fairy kept beneath the walls of a dungeon.

But castles were those for a reason, and walls were built thicker against attacks and he needed to  _remember_ …  _needed_  to  _remember_ …

He was not meant to be… he was  _meant_  to  _be_ …

He had practiced and he was ready and his barriers were not yet broken and he knew just how this was supposed to end. He finally  _knew_. Knew the path the one before him had taken through the litany of power and the necessity of a fortress. And he was trying so hard to see through the mist and ignore the accent thicker with emotions that were never meant to reach for light through the darkness he’d collected. Never meant to extinguish those flames that created ash and soot. Never meant to bud flowers where thorns were meant to be.

And then she opened her eyes again trying to find him in the space berween, and all repetition was lost and wasted to cerulean. And she drew his hand closer with another wriggling yawn and fingers brushed her tiny chest feeling a pulse beat through a monster’s reflection as an entity, too beautiful to be a monster and too perfect to be anything at all, inspected the trust for something he would give her until words ran out and the world burned.  

“Hallo there…” he whispered, smiling enough to corrode his face and not caring in the least, holding her closer to his chest in an introduction he hadn’t practiced but sang with the fluency of a million mirrors. A secondary name that finally allowed an image of an opposite side to slip away entirely, for only one option to even be considered. To make room for a future of pasts and words sweet as lullabies he couldn’t wait to repeat to something other than reflective glass. 

“ _Ah’m yee’re daddy_.”

And there was nothing else needed as the final briars of a border melted away. 


End file.
